


I'll Bring You the Moon

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Unhappy Ending, but they're trying and that's what matters, cursing, it's probably not good enough, logan is a dork that works for nasa, they're doing their best, virgil is a nerd that works for a museum and for coffee delivery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 17:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 94,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20068198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: Logan has had his life planned out since, well, forever. Get through college, get an internship at NASA, rise through the ranks, get into space, something, something, happy ending and he’s set for life. The first couple steps were easy, out of the way in a snap. Meeting Virgil, however, kind of threw a wrench into those plans.But it’s fine. Logan can navigate a job at NASA, flirt with a cute museum tour guide, and deal with everyone’s inexplicable hatred of Neptune at the same time. It shouldn’t be too hard—after all, it’s not like it’s rocket science....Well, okay, so it is kind of like rocket science.





	1. T minus 60 seconds

“Yikes, already dipping out for the day?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, hey, at least you finished all the major work for the week, right? Now you just get to relax on breaks.”

“That’s what you think.” Logan grins as he squeezes into the stairwell, nodding his thanks as one of the other interns holds the door open for him. She hefts her messenger bag higher on her shoulders before stooping to grab something off the floor and hand it to Logan.

“Butterfingers.”

“Thanks, Almond Joy.” Logan tilts his head as she slides the pen behind his ear, where it’s rarely obedient enough to stay. “It  _ was _ Joy, right?”

“Right.” Joy lets the door slip shut as Logan begins his descent, still cocking his head to the side in hopes that the pen won’t fall again.

Five flights of stairs and two near-fumbles with the stack of papers in his arms later, Logan averts his gaze as he strolls through the front door. Lingering just outside the entrance is one of his bosses, holding a cup of coffee and a travel thermos of oatmeal. Logan stares at his shoes as the warm spring air smacks him in the face like a soggy paper towel, hoping against hope that his boss won’t—

Nope. “Hey, Lucas, can you hang back a sec?” To be fair, it wasn’t Mx. Oatmeal calling him, but Logan holds in a groan anyway. He begrudgingly turns to see another of the fifth floor interns—Cassidy, if memory serves him correctly—rushing for the exit and clutching a mess of folders to her chest. The blue and red symbols decorating the logo on her cap look frayed enough to fall right off. “Oh, I’m  _ so _ glad I caught you! Here, they wanted us to do these reports, too,” Cassidy says, fanning out her burden flat until her eyes come to rest on a thick manila folder. She holds it out to Logan, continuing, “I heard you were set to be done early today, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t walking in to a master disaster of aluminum and plaster tomorrow because they decided to wait until the last minute.”

As a floormate of hers, Logan has long since grown used to the haphazard, uh,  _ cadence _ with which Cassidy talks. He barely lifts an eyebrow, merely thumbing through some of his new papers and scrunching his nose to adjust his glasses. His heart comes incredibly close to tottering right off the cliff it calls home when he sees the bright red seal obscuring the last few pages.  _ Classified information enclosed—NASA clearance level eight. _

“Ah, Cassidy?” Logan says, squinting at the bold words and praying she hasn’t left yet. “Which ‘they’ are we talking about when we say we’re waiting until the last minute?” When she hesitates to answer, Logan glances up. Saying the gleam in her eye is disorienting would be an understatement.

“Oh, you know, only the tippity toppitiest, higher uppitiest ‘they’ we have. Higher than Mx. Oatmeal, actually. Higher than Katie-Lee, too, I think. We’re not even supposed to discuss the contents of our own folders with each other, that’s how secret it is. Why, what’s in yours?”

“I feel like you kind of missed the whole thing you just said about these folders being secret,” Logan says, snapping his folder shut and placing it in the middle of his already oversized stack. “Was that it?”

“Yup!” Cassidy spins on her heel and walks back in through the out door, shuffling her feet so she doesn’t cross paths with Mx. Oatmeal. Logan waits until she disappears into the elevator and the lobby appears silent before turning to leave again.

“Well, I can’t exactly take this straight home,” Logan mumbles to himself. Work life separate from home life, and all that fun stuff. “Maybe to a cafe? No, too loud, too public. A bookstore’s probably too shady to walk into, dressed for work like this.” Realizing he’s blocking both the exit and the ramp from the sidewalk to the street as he currently stands, Logan’s feet carry him to the right, pacing alongside the bike lane as he continues muttering and arguing with himself.

Before he can win and lose at his own squabble that everyone occupying the world around him is politely pretending not to notice, Logan’s feet deposit him in front of a long, wide, concrete staircase. Crowning the top is a set of sleek marble pillars, which frame a pair of gleaming gold and umber doors. Logan shrugs and starts climbing.

Just inside the doors—cool to the touch and smooth along the center from how many people handle them, if anyone’s keeping track—are a few white foldout tables, with a set of downdressed security guards to match. While the other three cast disinterested looks at Logan before focusing back on their pebbly table, one leaps to his feet and bounds over to Logan—that is, if a five foot man with wrists thick enough to wear headbands as bracelets can bound. The smile on his face is a stunning contrast to the bulky biceps rippling beneath the strict set of a pressed blue button-up and khakis.

“Visitor, student, or lost?” he asks. His voice sounds like someone tried to cut construction paper with safety scissors drenched in glue and glitter. But, like, in a good way. A youthful glow sort of voice, if that makes sense. Logan doesn’t get paid enough to be this observant at his internship, but at least it’s a decent form of entertainment.

“Sorry, I don’t—” Logan begins, but he can barely get the words out before the guard’s eyes drop to his stack of papers.

“Oh, ten dollars says you’re from Otalini High. Uniforms and a heavy workload, am I right?” The guard bends down to brace his hands on his knees, looking up and down at Logan’s pile. “Or maybe Allognathini, I hear there’s a major crackdown on physical evidence this year. Finals, am I right?”

Logan blinks.

“Nah, go with your gut,” the guard continues. His companions looks incredibly bored, but when Logan glances at them for a daring rescue, they make themselves look incredibly busy counting the tiles along the vaulted ceiling. “Anyhoodle, you got your student ID so I can sign you in?”

“I, um.” Logan hesitates, not sure how to dash this guard’s dreams of correctly guessing his high school. Especially when Logan graduated years ago.

“Gotcha, gotcha. Hands too full, am I right?” The guard scrabbles for a pen and paper from one of the tables. “How about I just write your ID number, and you can get back to me when you sign out?”

Logan decides bluntness is best. “I’m not a student.”

The guard freezes. “Are you sure you aren’t a student?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Really? Wow.  _ Really?” _

Logan does not particularly appreciate this guy’s incredulous tone. “Really. I’m just an intern at an office nearby, and I didn’t want to take my work home.”

“Got any ID to prove that?”

“No, but I’ve got this badge with my name and building clearance, and twenty dollars for a day pass to come in here.” Logan tilts his left shoulder forward, displaying the name badge.

“Oh, that’s not necessary—it’s free admission on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Logan is doing his best not to be exasperated at the apparently unnecessary delay. He does not succeed. The guard claps Logan on the back with a laugh, watching him struggle to keep his papers in order. “If y’ever need anything, just holler. Name’s Patton, but I bet you knew that.” Logan bites his tongue to keep from asking how he could have possibly known that.

As his mind traces back over the stern red warning packed in his stack of papers and folders and, apparently, top secret developments, Logan absently hugs his arms closer to his chest. He veers left for what looks to be an abstract art exhibit, mercifully lacking in attendees. The expansive tiled room is dotted every few yards with an oversized (probably fake) palm tree, around which are plush red benches. Logan sits on the bench smack in the center of the room, hoping most people’s instincts to hug the walls will benefit him here. He sets the stack at his side and slips out a few pages, hiding the manila folder between plain, unassuming blue ones. Maintaining a cool nonchalance, he casts his eyes at a new painting every so often, pretending to take notes on them in the manila folder. He wonders whether he looks like a fool to be doing this, but ultimately decides he doesn’t care. At least, not until a gaggle of kids—clearly high school students—sweeps in.

Logan lowers the folder to his lap, pretending to deeply consider the mess of squares (with one disobedient circle, of course) on a canvas a few feet away from the storm of newcomers. A swarm of teens in deep maroon and navy blue, with the occasional plaid skirt or preppy blazer tossed in for flavor, stands in an obstructive huddle blocking the entrance. Some of the kids have their phones out and are typing furiously, others scribble on clipboards with pens and highlighters, and still more have their sleeves pushed past their elbows to scrawl along their forearms in sharpie.

At the head of it all is a single person in a dark green cardigan and tattered skinny jeans, waving his arms like a skydiving penguin and somehow commanding the undivided attention of a solid fifteen teenagers. One of the kids raises a pencil in the air—one of those overly expensive, engraved family heirlooms, to be sure—and points the eraser at the painting the guy in the cardigan is blocking. Cardigan Man wags a pair of finger guns at the kid before smacking a hand on the wall beside the painting. He opens his mouth as if to yell something, but only a whisper comes out, whatever it is sending the whole pack of students into a giggling fit. Logan scrunches his nose to adjust his glasses and pointedly stares at a corner of the painting, peeking out just past Cardigan Man’s right shoulder. It looks like a paintbrush sneezed on it. On—on the painting, not on Cardigan Man’s shoulder.

Logan shifts his focus to a different painting, panning his movement ahead a moment before the tour group continues to catch up to him. He finds his eyes drawn to the way the cardigan swishes, bouncing to the rhythm of the guy’s stride. Almost a glide, really, with how smoothly he moves. His head hardly bounces between his steps. Logan wonders whether he doesn’t have some dance experience under those heels that barely touch the ground.

“Group Theta of Otalini Prep, you are late for your report time to the lobby,” a cold voice announces from an outdated set of speakers mounted along the walls. “Proceed to the entrance doors immediately. Any delay in arrival will result in a ten percent dock to your final grade.” A panic flies through the group as they pocket their phones, clip their pens to their clipboards, and roll down their sleeves to hide the notes inked on their skin. They scramble for the exit, tossing out farewells and thank you’s to Cardigan Man as they barrel for the unsuspecting security guards. At least Patton will have people whose energies match his own for a while.

Cardigan Man—or Cadmium, as Logan decides he’s going to call him, because that makes so much more sense—rolls his shoulders forward and cracks the kinks in his neck, watching the last of the students race for the lobby. When no more teens appear to be forthcoming, he moves for Logan’s bench, sitting on the opposite side of it from him. Logan slips the manila folder back into his pile of papers, praying it hadn’t been sitting open on his lap that entire time as he feels for the pen Joy slipped behind his ear. Gone, of course, but that’s hardly surprising.

Logan slips a spare pen out of his pocket and tries to inconspicuously toss it across the floor, probably looking incredibly conspicuous as he does so. He scoops his papers under an arm and stands, bending down as he does so to pretend to search for his ‘lost’ pen. Every time he reaches it, he kicks it a few steps further, feigning lighthearted frustration at himself. It rapidly turns to genuine surprise when he walks straight into Cadmium—or, rather, into his legs, which are sprawled out and away from the bench. Logan snatches his pen and drops onto the bench a couple cushions away, staring at the ground and willing his face to stop burning. Oddly enough, Cadmium didn’t seem to notice. Logan pulls out his phone and fumbles around with the chess app, looking at absolutely anything besides Cadmium, who mercifully hasn’t questioned Logan’s blunder.

After what seems like hours, Logan dares a glance to his left and sees Cadmium’s head lolling back on the top of the bench. A peek at his phone reveals that only eleven minutes have passed. Logan decides his phone must be lying, but he looks closer at Cadmium anyway.

His lips are slightly parted, and if it weren’t for his closed eyes and the way his soft breaths are gently buffeting his purple bangs, Cadmium would look for all the world like he was simply admiring the underside of the fake leaves overhead. Logan cranes his own neck, wondering how that could possibly be a comfortable position for sleeping, but his curiosity subsides when he notices the design on Cadmium’s shirt. In a bright tennis ball green—or yellow, if you’re the kind of monster who thinks tennis balls are yellow—and a font that looks like comic sans got itself a two year degree in baking with a concentration in chocolate croissants, it reads ‘tour guide?’ Logan can’t decide whether it’s supposed to mean people are supposed to guide  _ him _ on tours, ask him for tours, or question the validity of the tours he’s about to guide them on.

Near the entryway where Cadmium had first swept in, dripping in all his green cardigan-clad glory, a huddle of kids in shirts with ‘Allognathini’ scrawled across the front peers around the corner. They survey the room and murmur amongst themselves, several of them pausing to give Logan a once-over. His work clothes probably aren’t helping his whole ‘not a tour guide’ image. He elbows Cadmium on a hunch, looking anywhere but at him when he wakes.

Cadmium jerks up, recoiling from Logan’s touch and sweeping his fading purple bangs out of his face. His eyes lock on Logan’s obvious attempt at excessive nonchalance, then shift to the group of students. As Cadmium stands and rubs the sleep from his eyes, Logan dares another glance at him. Cadmium, of course, chooses that exact moment to turn back, his gaze locking with Logan’s.

Just to be clear, it isn’t love at first sight, so put that out of your mind before anything else. It’s hardly acquaintances at first sight. Cadmium shoots Logan a quick nod of thanks—barely a smile, let alone verbal acknowledgement of the favor—before setting off for the group. He properly musses up his hair as he goes, and Logan finds himself lingering on the army of bracelets and rings peeking out from under the cardigan sleeve. With every step he takes, Cadmium melts deeper into the swagger he had with the earlier tour group—a complete and near-unrecognizable one-eighty from the exhausted (albeit peaceful) face passed out on the bench mere minutes ago.

If you asked Logan why he kept coming back to the art museum after that unplanned first visit, he’d tell you it was because of the calm atmosphere and visually interesting environment. This would be a lie, but it’s still what he would tell you. What he probably would  _ not _ tell you (the truth, to be clear) is that he’s incredibly interested in seeing the other hundred and seventy nine degrees woven into Cadmium’s cardigan.

But yes, all of this to say that Logan returns to the museum several times, long after completing the workload in his top secret packet, and he almost never says a word to Cadmium. He simply arrives, deals with Patton, and observes the rest. A few failed attempts to cross paths with the tour guide make it increasingly obvious that Cadmium only ever makes an appearance on Tuesdays and Thursdays—free admission days, though Logan is still waiting for the jury to come back on whether that’s a coincidence or not.

More often than not, Logan will actively try to avoid Cadmium (once he’s verified the tour guide is, you know,  _ there _ ), but apparently his tours span the entire museum, so there’s no escaping the guy. He eventually sheds his pride over the whole thing about eight visits later and tags along on a tour populated by small children with bookish helicopter parents. He makes a point not to join any of the high school tours, though, as that would look more than a little odd, but he admires how differently Cadmium presents information between students getting a grade and people just enjoying a day at a museum. Where students hear all about the artist’s lives and how their upbringing could provide a unique perspective on possible interpretations of the underlying meanings in their work, children tend to get illuminati-style rabbit holes. One of Logan’s favorite pastimes—after finishing any leftover work he didn’t leave at the office, of course—is tracking how many layers Cadmium can go into about each painting. While eight tours isn’t a very big sample to pull from, Cadmium has managed to not repeat any of his conspiracy theories, not even when discussing completely disparate works.

The best rabbit hole Logan has heard so far is as follows: “The tree is green, which is the color of money, the printing of which is directly correlated to inflation, which is also a noun used to discuss blowing up balloons. Bombs also blow up, and bombs are the bob-ombs in super mario bros. I used to play the demos of those games on the display consoles at Target. A target is used in archery, which is a sport. Soccer is also a sport. Soccer is called football in Germany. Germany participated in a war. So did the United States of America, also known by the acronym ‘USA.’ JPEG is also an acronym, which is a manner of lossy compression for digital images, circa wikipedia’s contribution from Richard F. Haines’ 1992 technical report. Therefore, this painting is loss dot jpg.”

Logan still hasn’t worked out whether Cadmium rehearsed all that or just made it up on the spot.

The first time he finally spoke to the guy—this being right after Cadmium had made a stunning connection between petticoats and ukuleles, mind you—he was wrapping up a tour and making a beeline for the door. Even as Logan held back, content to watch him push up the sleeves of his cardigan to check his watch, Cadmium seemed a little hesitant to go. He turned back and spoke in a much less cheery tone than Logan had come to expect from the tours. “What’s your deal?”

This gives Logan a moment’s pause, to put it gently. To put it bluntly, it feels like a flying bowling ball buried itself in his abdomen. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re always hanging around my tours, so what’s your deal? Do you want, like, a private tour or something? Are you an overachieving Otalinite? Because I don’t really do personal tours, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, no, I, um,” Logan stutters, his fluttery hands finding a panicked home near his collarbone. “I’m, ah, I’m not a student.”

“Good for you, fight the system. I still don’t do private tours.”

Logan bites at his lower lip, uncertain how to respond. “Got it. Sorry, did you want me to stop tagging along on your tours, or…?”

Cadmium crosses his arms and looks Logan up and down. Logan wonders whether he’s secretly unimpressed with what he sees. “Nah, you look smart enough to draw in parents that want to breed genius children. Just stop pretending not to notice when I pass you with a group of students in tow, yeah? It’s weird, and you’re not fooling anyone.” He sticks his hand out. Logan stares at it, baffled. “This is the part where you shake it,” he says in a stage whisper. “Stop peddling your D level act of passivity and you can keep tagging along, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Logan finally says, shaking the hand. It’s colder than he’d expected—somewhere around freezing, actually.

“Cool. See you Tuesday, then.” Cadmium breaks off the handshake first. Logan watches him go, warming up his chilled fingers with his other hand.  



	2. T minus 58 seconds

Aside from the one confrontation post-petticoat ukulele conspiracy, Logan still hasn’t talked with Cadmium. Really,  _ truly _ talked to the guy. Tagging along on his tours doesn’t count. Granted, a fair amount of his Tuesdays and Thursdays are occupied with thoughts of Cadmium, but Logan  _ does _ still have a life outside of him. It comes with no small amount of annoyance that this other life involves dealing with unsolvable problems at his internship.

“I heard there’s no real answer,” Cassidy says. She stabs her pen in the air, writing imaginary equations and scowling at the empty space.

“I heard they had this problem, like, years ago,” Joy says. Logan steeples his fingers under his chin with his elbows propped on his knees, watching Joy spin circles on her chair with her nose pointed at the ceiling. “I bet they already know the answer, and any intern that can’t crack it gets kicked to the curb.”

“Somehow, I feel like excessive alliteration isn’t the answer, Joy,” Micah calls from the water jug. His perspective might seem more valuable if his cheek weren’t flattened against the top of the machine in an utterly pitiful display of boredom.

“Oh, and I bet you already figured it out, huh, smart guy?” Joy’s retort also seems less valuable, as it comes at the same moment that she smacks her ankle into the leg of her desk, her spinning cut short. Logan is getting the sinking feeling that he chose the wrong scientific field.

“Maybe we’re looking at it from the wrong angle. Does someone want to read it again, and we all think of it with clean slates?” Logan glances around the room, hoping that his non-contribution will be sufficient. “Or, hey, Alex, have you got an idea? You haven’t said too much yet.”

Alex’s shock of dyed yellow hair jolts as they lift their eyes to peer over the top of the computer. “Can I get you a handkerchief, or did you dodge the splashback when you threw me under the bus just now?”

“ _ I’ll _ read it, you bunch of babies,” Cassidy sighs. “Okay. Riddle me this, folks. Thought experiments for the modern era.”

“Lay off the Mcelroy references and finish the question,” Micah grumbles.

Cassidy wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue before continuing. “The ship of Theseus proposes that a ship leaves a location and has every single part of itself periodically replaced before reaching a second location. The question is whether the ship to arrive is a different ship than the one to depart. Bear this in mind while assuming all cultural divides and disparities—cultural, political, scientific, or otherwise—are held in an impenetrable stasis that has no effect on the contents of the riddle, and conclusively solve the following. Jeez, talk about a run-on sentence.

“NASA launches a rocket to Neptune, and the only passenger is the child of a Russian and an American, where the parents were born on Earth and the child on Mars. The inhabited rocket was built half of parts from NASA and half of parts from Roscosmos. It contains enough parts to make an entirely new rocket, all of which were created on the moon. Allowing adequate suspensions of disbelief in favor of the passenger’s ability to build the new rocket and touch down on Neptune alive, which flag should be placed on Neptune as the first to arrive: That of Mars, the Moon, Earth, America, or Russia?”

“Does the moon even have its own flag?” Micah muses.

Joy slams the side of her fist on her desk hard enough to rattle the pens scattered across the floor. “This is such a stupid question. It barely even has anything to do with space!”

“It  _ is _ about non-mathematical rocket science,” Alex points out.

“You could take the exact same problem and change a few key words to make it about a fish being flushed down a toilet,” Logan counters, “and nothing would change.”

“Is the fish dead?” Micah asks. “Because now you’re introducing aquatic zombies to the equation.”

“No aquatic zombies!” Joy and Alex shout in unison. Logan joins in the cry with a muttered mimic of his own, and even Cassidy looks quite done with Micah, who traces his finger along the side of the water tank before patting the top.

“Aquatic zombies,” he whispers forlornly. Logan isn’t entirely sure how Micah managed to weasel his way into an internship here, but he stopped questioning it a long time ago.

“It’s the moon, isn’t it?” Cassidy tries. This brings about a chaotic storm of argued disagreements through which Logan couldn’t possibly begin to sort.

“But the passenger was born on Mars, so it’s the Martian flag.”

“But their parents were of Earth, do we know where the passenger was conceived? Earthling parents mean it can’t be Mars’ flag.”

“Oh, like the Opportunity rover would plant a flag on Neptune.”

“Rip in pieces, Oppy.”

“Well, wouldn’t it be the country of origin of the mom, since she’s the one that had to carry the passenger to term?”

“That’s sexist, and we don’t know which parent is which.”

“It’s heretonormative, anyway.”

“You mean cisnormative.”

“I know what I meant to mean.”

“Unless you meant both. Trans father for the win.”

“Trans father, transformer, illuminati?”

“Does  _ Earth _ even have a flag?”

“Where was the passenger raised? That might change the answer.”

The door opposite the stairs slams open as another intern with dirty blond hair and a beanie stumbles in looking particularly disheveled—well, more so than usual, at least.

“The passenger opened a wormhole immediately after being born, and raised themself on Neptune,” Logan deadpans. “Roman, if you haven’t got any good news, I swear to—”

“They cancelled the level eight project,” the man at the door says. Were it not for the bright gold name embroidered along the breast pocket of his shirt—Roman—Logan might believe him to be a random guy from off the street. “They figured out the missing sections—without our input, obviously—and decided the clearance rate was excessive. Basically, they said a toddler with a functioning search engine could crack it, so we should stop wasting our time.”

“Has the toddler ever been to Neptune?” Logan asks dryly. A hollow chorus of laughs ricochets around the room, quieted only by the click of the hour hand on the only analog clock hung on the wall. It must’ve been ages since Logan souped up the old thing to announce clockins, breaks, and clockouts.

“For the next hour,” Joy declares, “Neptune does not exist.”

“Seconded,” the other interns agree, putting their respective monitors to sleep and shuffling for the break room.

Roman lags behind to enter after Logan, prodding the small of his back and tilting his head toward the computers. He clears his throat meaningfully. Logan sighs, casting one last doleful look into the breakroom before joining Roman out on the floor again.

“They did want me to give you this,” Roman murmurs, “but keep it cazh.”

“Nothing is less ‘cazh’ than you shortening the word ‘casual’ like that,” Logan says, nonchalantly stretching an arm over his head. On the downswing, he takes the item from Roman’s hand and threads it between his fingers.

“I think I got the same deal, but don’t mention it, yeah?” Roman steps into the breakroom first, allowing Logan a moment to dawdle and inspect his acquisition. A flat disc, about the size of a well-used roll of scotch tape, with the NASA logo on both sides. Logan pinches the edges beside the first and last letter experimentally, and a USB plug pops out from the bottom of the logo. He pinches again, and it slides away. It looks for all the world like an overly expensive keychain one might find in a cheap museum. Logan shrugs, pockets it, and joins the others in the breakroom.

Only Roman appears to be in any semblance of a good mood—then again, he got clearance to visit the upper offices while everyone else pondered that stupid riddle. After teasing Roman about how he was probably about to get The Talk (the firing talk, that is) from the higher ups, it only took the rest of the floor about five minutes to give up on individual glory and try to solve the problem together. Obviously, it didn’t help.

“We could send someone for coffee,” Cassidy says. At least, Logan  _ thinks _ that’s what she said. Her voice is a little muffled, what with how her face is pressed against the table.

“And get yelled at for prioritizing caffeine over the crappy cloud juice we’ve already got here?” Alex replies, tracing their finger over the glass front of the vending machine. Its only products are bottled water and expired heath candy bars. Four bucks a pop. “I’d rather dehydrate than take that kind of reprimanding.”

“I am literally going to commit multiple federal and moral crimes if I don’t get some  _ real bean juice _ in my system in the next hour,” Joy grumbles. A true testament to her name.

Micah, apparently having moved on from the destruction of his aquatic zombie idea, springs to his feet from where he was sprawled across the floor. “We could use Logan’s app!”

This might be a good time to mention that, in padding his resume to apply for this extended internship, Logan made a brief foray into coding, which resulted in an app he dubbed ‘fetch quest.’ Basically a personalized coffee order service, more specialized than door dash, where instead of ordering food straight to your location, you put out a request for coffees—usually from Starbucks, Tim Hortons, Biggby, the like—to be delivered by the colloquially nicknamed fetch kids. Upon getting their coffee, the buyer reimburses the fetch kid for the coffee, as well as an obligatory tip so the fetch kid can turn a quick buck.

To tell the truth, Logan was genuinely too lazy to walk to the campus cafeteria for a coffee while working on homework, and paid his roommate five dollars to do it for him. (He paid in nickels, by the way.) So lazy was Logan, in fact, that he made an app to avoid ever dealing with the inconvenience again.

“I’m down for that,” Cassidy mumbles. “Who’s got the app? Seems kinda rude to do six separate orders, y’know, like ordering a different personal pizza from different locations and having them arrive at the same time, then fight to the death for the right to deliver their pizza first, so they miss the thirty minute limit and no one gets paid.”

“Okay, so Cassidy gets a decaf,” Alex says, swiping around on their phone. “Everyone just getting their usuals? Same as the last fetch quest?” Grunts of agreement are their only answer—aside from Roman, who peers over Alex’s shoulder to design an obscenely personalized drink.

“Pitch in a five dollar tip for the barista,” Logan calls. “I’ll cover it.” Roman perks up at that as Alex taps the appropriate button on their phone. Before he can ask, Logan nods, saying, “I’ll spot you the six dollars.”

“It’s actually closer to seven,” Roman admits, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got a dairy substitute, don’t sue me. I’m broke, anyway, so it wouldn’t help if you won the suit.”

“This is a  _ paid _ internship,” Joy points out.

Roman looks aghast. “You guys are getting paid?” It’s unclear whether he’s kidding.

“Order placed and transaction pending,” Alex announces, “so start up the charitable donation pool to my wallet.” Roman initiates the process, pulling the beanie off his head and carrying it around the room for everyone to toss their bills in. He can only manage a weak smile when Logan tosses in double what he ought to.

“Wait, Logan,” Micah says, “you didn’t get anything last time.”

“Shoot, yeah, what can I get you? No one’s picked it up yet,” Alex says, pulling the wads of bills from Roman’s hat.

“Just do a fetch kid’s delight, I guess. Price limit five.” Roman darts across the room to grab the proffered bill from Logan, attempting (and spectacularly failing) to parkour over the chair on his way back. The rickety plastic flies out from underneath him and his chin smacks the carpet as he goes down. Before anyone thinks about moving to help, he jumps to his feet and dusts off his knees, pretending as if nothing happened.

“It’s been accepted,” Alex announces.

“Maybe the trick is to work out whether the rocket, being from the moon, is the first to land, or if it has to be a life form in order to count for reaching Neptune first,” Joy suggests. Cassidy lifts her head to respond, thinks better of it, and drops her face back onto the table.

“That’s only assuming you give the rocket living rights to plant the flag,” Micah says.

“Did you guys consider the ramifications of the nationalities of each parent?” Roman asks.

“Yes,” everyone else groans in unison. Even Logan says it, now thoroughly annoyed by how much inconvenience Roman was able to skip in favor of retrieving a little flashdrive.

“Do we need to take into account the heritage of the parents?” Cassidy tries.

“It wasn’t included in the information backing up the question, and we’re only supposed to get an answer based on what we concretely know already,” Alex replies.

“We don’t concretely know already which flag they plant,” Logan offers, “so maybe the answer is that we aren’t supposed to have one.”

“That’s exactly what someone who knows the answer would say,” Joy mutters. This manner of conversation continues for another fifteen minutes or so, until someone knocks on the door at the top of the stairs.

“Liquid inspiration!” Roman shouts, vaulting over the empty chairs on his sprint for the door. As he swings it open to reveal a very familiar silhouette, Alex clicks a few times on their phone, finalizing the transaction upon receival.

Apart from the grey and red plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, Cadmium looks like he walked straight out of one of his own tours, down to the maroon cardigan and black skinny jeans. “Fetch quest fulfillment for Ally-oopsy-olly—”

“Yep, yes, that’s me,” Alex interrupts quickly, not letting him finish saying the username. They take a couple of the cups from Cadmium, stepping aside to let Joy and Micah help with the rest. Cadmium makes eye contact with Logan for a split second, inclines his chin, and turns to leave. He pulls out his phone, the screen angled enough for Logan to see the fetch quest home screen loading in more requests.

“Wait, we didn’t tip you,” Logan calls, surging past the other interns to catch up.

“Yeah, we did,” Alex says, “I put in your five, and I have my account set for an auto-gratuity of twenty—”

“Shut  _ up _ , Alex,” Logan hisses over his shoulder. He turns to Cadmium, who looks somewhere between amused and bewildered. If he landed on Neptune, which emotion would touch down first? “Here y’are. Thanks.” Logan allows the last word to linger in the air, implying an unvoiced request for a name as he passes Cadmium a ten.

Cadmium glances from his phone—now proudly displaying a cheerful reimbursement and tip breakdown message—to the bill and back to his phone. He nods slowly, taking the ten and heading down the stairs. Logan blinks, watching him go.

“Wow,” Roman says, coming closer to rest his elbow on Logan’s shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, my guy.”

“Oh, shove off.”


	3. T minus 56 seconds

It took Logan quite a while to figure out what, exactly, the contents of his fetch kid’s delight were. The shorthand for the order wasn’t written on the sleeve, nor was there a receipt in Cadmium’s hands upon delivery, so that meant either that Cadmium told the barista to make something up, or that it was such a simple order that the barista didn’t bother to write it down—or he just threw the receipt away. He passed the cup around the floor, but all anyone else could tell was that it had an excessive amount of whipped cream on top.

Although he had the foresight while making the app to include the option to find fetch kids based on previous satisfactory orders, as well as let fetch kids personalize their profile with their top drink choices for ordering a delight, it isn’t of much use to him now. Sure, he could dig through every single registered fetch kid to find Cadmium, but Logan does have some sense of personal boundaries. Exploiting his own app to track down a literal living human being falls more than a little outside of those boundaries.

There also exists the option to straight up  _ ask _ Cadmium when they cross paths at the museum, but that’s just too easy. Logan likes a bit of a challenge. While he could just borrow Alex’s phone to see recent fetch quest transactions, he decides to instead to make it a little more exciting. What else could a paid NASA intern want to do with their time?

Logan pockets his phone, clicking the screen away from a pending receival of two fetched kid delights. All around him, kids too young to be in school barrel through the public park with their beleaguered parents in tow, like so many elderly cats being begrudgingly sicced on house mice. He dodges to the side as a set of triplets comes tumbling past the entrance, closely followed by a frantic-looking woman. She mumbles an apology to Logan, tightening her ponytail and moving faster. A little ways down the path is an ice cream stand, which pretty clearly seems to be the triplets’ destination. Logan checks his phone. Hardly twenty minutes have passed.

He thumbs over to the profile of the fetch kid that accepted his order request. So far, it’s the most promising one he’s seen, in that there’s next to no personal information, let alone a reference picture or name. At the very least, no confirmation of what was in Logan’s cup the other day. ‘If you see a guy trying to juggle all five of your drinks, it’s probably me.’ A bit vague, but certainly not inaccurate.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a voice says from just outside the park gates. Logan glances over his shoulder to see Cadmium strolling up with two cups in his hands. Probably both fetch kid delights, if common sense has any input here. “Two times now that I’ve seen you outside the museum? You’re not even here  _ with _ anyone, dude, why get two drinks?”

Logan accepts both cups, nudging Cadmium’s shoulder with the one in his left hand. “Walk with me?”

“What.” Cadmium stares blankly at the cup, his face expressionless as he presumably plays the question back in his head a couple more times. “What? No, no, I can’t, there’s probably way more fetch quests I can—”

“Please?” The emotions return to Cadmium’s face, all in a rush. Refusal. Annoyance. Reluctance, hesitation, acceptance, one right after another. Cadmium lets his head droop, revealing a gleaming pair of black and blue headphones looped around his neck. The sleek color scheme matches his deep purple cardigan.

“I guess so.” Cadmium reluctantly accepts the cup back from Logan, squinting at the sippy lid opening suspiciously as he follows Logan onto the winding cobblestone path.

“I promise I didn’t poison it in the ten seconds I was holding it in front of you,” Logan says. Just to prove as much, he takes a swig from his own cup, immediately recoiling as if the flavor had reached out and bit him back.

Cadmium does a quick exhale through his nose, not quite a laugh as he watches Logan’s face contort. “Bit of an acquired taste, I guess.”

“What  _ is _ this stuff, anyway?”

“Black coffee with whipped cream and five shots of espresso.” Logan waits for Cadmium to elaborate, to offer an explanation for deciding a jacked coffee with whipped cream was something he needed in his life, but none is forthcoming. “I’m not kidding.”

“That’s what worries me.” Logan works his tongue against a piece of food he doesn’t remember getting stuck between his molars, hoping his cheek doesn’t puff out too strangely as he watches Cadmium take a heavy swig from his own cup. “How did you even realize that was a viable drink option, let alone a desirable one?”

“Great question. Alternative question, though. What’s your deal? Why do I keep seeing you everywhere?”

“In my defense, the first few museum tours and that time at my office were unintentional.”

“Okay, cool, and how about literally every single other instance where we’ve seen each other besides those?”

“Like now, you mean?”

“Yes. Like now, I mean.”

Logan hesitates, watching his shoes loosen the pebbles underfoot as he tries to figure out a way to phrase his answer without sounding like a total creep. Admittedly, he doesn’t really know if his gut answer would be accurate. “You seemed interesting at the museum, and I decided I wanted to talk to you outside of a tour. I don’t really know  _ why _ that is, per se.” Brutal honesty for the win.

“I don’t even know your name, dude, you can’t tell me you aren’t picking up on how weird this looks from my perspective.” An odd expression crosses Cadmium’s face before he ducks his head down, his ears flushing a bright pink. “Of course, since you made the fetch quest app, I’m sure you know  _ my _ name already.”

“I don’t, actually, but I’ll gladly keep referring to you in my head as ‘Cadmium,’ if that would make you happy. Mine’s Logan, by the way.”

“Okay, Logan, follow-up question.” Cadmium raises his head once more to focus on where they’re going, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a double seated stroller. The dad behind it wrenches the wheels out of the way with much more force than necessary, because obviously Cadmium should feel guilty for being in the way on the right—and correct—side of the path. “Where in the world did you get it in your head to call me Cadmium?”

“My first impression of you was pretty much entirely ‘now that’s a man who is certainly wearing a cardigan.’ So Cardigan Man, which is too many syllables to deal with, so I knocked out a few letters here, added some there, and boom. Cadmium.”

Cadmium nearly stops walking, and only just manages to get his feet solid under himself as he turns to stare at Logan. “Despite seeing you at the museum so often, I never really pegged you as being this big of a nerd. A hardcore geek, at most, but this is more than I could have possibly expected.”

“I mean, I  _ am _ an intern at NASA,” Logan says. “So.”

“So,” Cadmium agrees. “Just to be clear, you don’t know my actual name? I don’t have to worry about being followed home and having my identity stolen yet?”

“Right. The extent of my knowledge regarding your personal life is that you can pull off a cardigan better than literally any other person I’ve ever seen before. Ever. Certainly better than I could possibly hope to.” Logan gestures to his own outfit, which is essentially what he wears to the office, just turned down about half a notch. “Neckties and polo shirts, all the way.”

Cadmium cocks his head to the side, rubbing at a spot along the slope of his neck as if the growing soreness were the only thing that dared hold his attention anymore. With no warning, he speeds up and leaves Logan in the dust, booking it for a minimalist garbage can. He tosses in his coffee cup—empty, apparently—and veers off the side of the path to lean against a lush oak tree. Logan nearly trips over his feet in a rush to catch up, rounding Cadmium’s side and craning his neck to see what he stopped for.

Cadmium peers into the surface of a pretty sizable pond, watching the ripples peter out from the dainty impacts of bugs skimming across the water. He stares at one bug in particular for a moment, then two, before nodding slowly and sighing. “Okay, don’t take this as weird as I know it’s gonna sound, but I’ll let you try on my cardigan. Just this once. Just so we can see where you’re going wrong. For the low low price of the rest of that coffee, which I can tell you don’t like, I’ll fix up your cardigan situation.”

“Fix my—?”

“You can’t pull off a cardigan, or so you claim, so let’s see some proof. Isn’t that what all you science dorks are about, experiments and evidence?” Cadmium shoots a glance up at the clouds, muttering to himself, “That’d be a really good name for an educational punk rock band.” Logan merely watches, dumbfounded, as Cadmium continues rambling to himself.

Finally content with whatever nonsense he’d whispered to the grass and to the sky, Cadmium turns and plants his hands on Logan’s shoulders, pressing him firmly into the ground. Logan had never realized just how much height Cadmium had over him. Cadmium fidgets with the minimal accessories Logan bothered to put on this morning, setting the necktie crooked, tossing it over one shoulder, over the other, back to normal, twisting his watch, and just generally messing up Logan’s whole ‘put together’ image.

“Might as well bite the bullet,” Cadmium says out of nowhere, sliding the cardigan off his shoulders and swatting Logan’s hands away as he moves to put it on. “I’ll tell you when I need cooperation. Just hold still for a second.” Cadmium’s hands look remarkably similar to pale little birds, fluttering this way and that as he drapes the cardigan over Logan’s shoulders, messes with the sleeves, adjusts and readjusts the hem. He takes a few steps back every so often, considering the look from a different angle and starting over from scratch. “Okay. I am going to put my very tenuous trust in you for a second here, and if you betray it, I will literally tear apart your entire existence so hard that your  _ great-grandparents _ will forget you ever existed.” Logan does a mix of nodding and shaking his head, raising his hands to show no ill will. Cadmium quirks his mouth to the side and slips off his headphones, settling them along the back of Logan’s neck. The unexpected weight is oddly pleasant. “Lean against that tree there, and put the sole of your foot up against the trunk. Higher. No, too high, do it like you’re not trying.”

“But I  _ am _ trying.”

“Well, stop acting like it. Foot lower. Cross your arms. Higher. Flex your muscles.”

“I don’t have muscles.”

“No excuses. Fake it ’til you make it. Flex the biceps you don’t have.” As he directs Logan, Cadmium produces his phone from his pocket and takes on the responsibility of an entire swarm of paparazzi, darting this way and that for different camera angles. “Look at the water. Chin up, you’re getting a weird shadow along your—okay, now you’re just looking at the sky. Up and over your shoulder—foot  _ down! _ Push up the sleeves of the cardigan. No, that just looks too intentional. Do it like this.” Cadmium drops the camera for a second to fix the sleeves himself, bunching them up at the elbow just so. “Okay, now stand like a normal human and walk toward the pond. I said  _ normal! _ Just like you’re your normal weird self, tagging along on one of my tours. Arms down, you aren’t a security guard.” Cadmium bites at his bottom lip, squinting at his phone. “Okay, c’mere. If these don’t convince you, you’re just allergic to having your picture taken.” To Logan’s undying relief, Cadmium lowers his camera.

“Now give me back my crap.” Cadmium shrugs the cardigan over his shoulders, looking infinitely more at home than Logan could’ve ever thought possible, waving off his attempts to hand back the headphones. “Keep ’em on for a minute, they look cool on you.” This may come as a surprise, so just brace yourself, but Logan has never been called ‘cool’ before. “See here, in the first picture? Science gungle bungle dictates that we have to have a control, which I’m designating as this picture. Your posture is really stiff, like you think the cardigan’s gonna bite you or something. In these later ones,  _ especially _ over on these leg-up passe pictures—the ones where your foot isn’t too high, at least—it looks way more natural.”

Cadmium continues talking, getting more into the breakdown as he leans against the tree beside Logan, but Logan hardly hears a word of it. He’s much too distracted with how Cadmium’s shoulder is bumping against his own, how their elbows knock together every time Cadmium points out some obscure detail Logan never would’ve picked up on, how he is literally wearing Cadmium’s own personal headphones around his own personal neck right now.

“So, um, what was all this for?” Logan asks. He almost doesn’t want to voice his confusion, so content is he to keep living in this moment. ‘Almost’ being the operative word here. His curiosity is just too strong to cope.

Cadmium lowers his phone and stares at Logan, incredulous. “Duh, it was to prove you wrong. Obviously you look good in a cardigan, and obviously I’m an absolute master with a camera. Pass me your coffee, and our transaction can be complete.” After taking a long pull from the cup, Cadmium taps the bottom of it and knocks down the last few dregs. “This was fun, given that it was a weird impromptu park walk. See you at the museum, then?”

“Wait, um, can I, um,” Logan sputters, pleading with his brain not to do this. Apparently his brain does not care what he wants. “Could I maybe get your number?”

Cadmium cocks his head to the side, considering what Logan hopes and prays comes across as an earnest expression. “Oh, dearest Logan, just remember that you can find me wherever fancy coffees are sold. Well, delivered, I guess. Here, actually, let me just—” Cadmium messes with his phone again, shielding the screen from Logan. “Okay, aaand—there we go! That oughta do it, don’t you think?” He flips the phone around, showing off a slightly more detailed profile description on his fetch quest app. Well, seven letters more detailed.

“Cadmium is spelled ‘iu,’ not ‘eu,’” Logan says, holding down a laugh. Cadmium’s eyes go wide as saucers.

“Oh my—right, yep, okay, cool, smooth move there Virrr—Cadmium. Cadmium. Is what I was going to say. Was Cadmium.”

“Sounded kind of like you were gonna say Vir—”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t.” Cadmium shoves his phone back into his pocket with a huff, but his tone is light enough to make it clear he’s kidding. At least, Logan  _ hopes _ he isn’t actually mad. “So. Until we next meet at the museum, then?”

“Unless I decide I want another fetch kid’s delight.”

“Oh, please, you hate my usual.”

“Lies and slander.” Sometimes Logan would lie awake at night, wondering whether his mouth would ever do something of its own volition, without letting the words actually run through his mind first. Unfortunately (or fortunately—Logan hasn’t decided yet), today seems to be that day. “And what’re the odds that my next fetch kid’s delight delivery will precede an available afternoon on behalf of the fetch kid?”

Cadmium tilts his head, and suddenly Logan understands the meaning of ‘blinking owlishly.’ “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you? The life of a part time fetch kid can be a very busy existence.” With that, Cadmium presses his empty cup back into Logan’s hands and sets off for the gate where they began. Logan stares after him, still not totally clear on what just happened. His free hand flies to his neck, where Cadmium’s headphones are still resting, but the other is long out of hearing range before Logan thinks to call after him. He glances down at the cup, his eyes catching on a sharpie line peeking out from under his thumb. Definitely a capital V. Read it and find out Cadmium’s name? Don’t read it, thus preserving his privacy and trust (not to mention Logan’s great-grandpa’s memories of him)? Read, don’t, read, don’t, read—

Logan drops the cup in a garbage can and turns for the entrance without a second glance.


	4. T minus 53 seconds

Logan wedges his finger in the impossibly tight space between his neck and the collar of his shirt. Is it normal to be this nervous? He’s just waiting for coffee in front of a museum. It’s not like it’s a date or anything. Of course, that negates Logan’s decision to wear a nicer tie than normal. He could always claim it was laundry day, but laundry day is Sunday, so everything is clean for the upcoming week. Not that Cadmium would know that. Would he? Is he even going to show up? Just because Logan specifically requested Cadmium as his fetch kid, that doesn’t guarantee he’ll  _ get _ him. Being the creator doesn’t mean pulling every string, but it’s not like it even matters, because Logan doesn’t  _ really _ care if it’s Cadmium or not, no siree, pure apathy here all the way.

He loosens his collar again, then fidgets with his tie for a few minutes. Covered in a gentle plaid of purple and blue, it’s the only pop of color he allowed himself over a dark grey shirt and khakis. Will Cadmium think Logan is trying too hard to mimic his color scheme from the park? Cadmium will probably hate it, will say Logan’s just some weird guy from a museum tour, that he’s nothing more than his little eccentricities, a light piece of entertainment and nothing more, that—

“It’s not very often that I get special requests for a personal fetch quest fulfillment, you know.” Logan sees Cadmium’s shadow before gathering the courage to meet his eyes, clearing his throat and giving his collar one last tug. “Of course, I thought it couldn’t’ve possibly been you, since I know how much you love my usual drink. Here’s your fancy pants latte with all the fix-ins.” Cadmium thrusts a styrofoam tray at Logan, angling the smaller drink for easier access. His other hand remains behind his back.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, um, right, let me just finalize the—”

Cadmium waves off Logan’s attempts to pay him back for the order. “I stole both your drinks last time, call it even.” His face flushes a soft pink as he seems to realize something. “You, um—you  _ did _ get the delight one for me, right? I’d hate to just assume—”

“Yeah, no, for sure, that’s all yours. If you want it, I mean.” Logan finally takes his drink in both hands, rocking back and forth on his feet and laughing uncomfortably. Cadmium echoes the sound, looking anywhere but at Logan, who takes the opportunity to admire Cadmium’s outfit. Under the green cardigan from the first time Logan saw him, Cadmium wears a pale grey T-shirt with a pastel alien across the front, paired with skinny jeans that proudly bear no holes. Possibly a first, as far as Logan’s seen. Logan opens his mouth to say something—compliment the outfit, mention the matching shirt colors,  _ something _ , but Cadmium beats him to the punch.

“Oh! I, ah, I actually did bring something. For you, I mean. If that’s okay, I mean, like, I brought it because I assumed the coffees were, well, you know, so I, um, I just, yeah, you know? I mean, here you go.” Cadmium pulls his other arm out from behind his back, revealing a single red rose in front of an even redder face. “I don’t, like, know anything specific about the color meanings of flowers or whatever, but I thought maybe, I mean, if you didn’t—”

“It’s great,” Logan interrupts, gingerly accepting the flower. “It’s really, really nice.” Cadmium huffs what Logan can only hope is a sigh of relief. “Um, shall we?” Logan gestures toward the entrance doors with his coffee hand, poking out his other elbow—far enough for Cadmium to link in his own if he were comfortable with that, close enough to himself that it could be mistaken for a casually awkward pose. Hopefully.

“Well, how about that?” a familiar voice says at the entrance. Patton scratches the back of his neck with one hand, flicking his wrist to check an imaginary watch with the other. “I never expected to see the famed Virgil here on a day that doesn’t start with ‘T,’ much less with a suitor on his arm!” Cadmium yanks his hand quickly away from the crook of Logan’s elbow, his eyes brimming with panic. Logan busies himself with looking absolutely anywhere else. “So, which of you’s paying for this little date?”

Logan trips over himself to protest how it’s not a date, but once again, Cadmium beats him to the punch, all the panic gone from his face. Or maybe Logan was only imagining it to begin with. Cadmium slips his arm back into Logan’s. “My little nerd here will be paying, as I already did him the honor of getting us drinks. Logan, pay the nice man.” Too numb to do much of anything else, Logan switches his rose to his coffee hand and passes Patton the first bill he finds in his pocket—a gently crumpled twenty.

Patton trades it for a ten and waves them in, laughing to himself. “I’m surprised at you, Virgil. I would’ve thought you’d try to argue that free admission days begin with ‘T,’ and ‘today’ starts with a T, or something like that.”

“Gotta keep ’em on their toes,” Cadmium calls over his shoulder, tugging a dumbfounded Logan inside. Once they’ve burst into the cool air conditioning of the lobby, Cadmium takes a long drink from his cup and stares at Logan. “So I guess that secret’s out, huh?”

“I’ll still call you Cadmium, if you prefer.”

“Nah, nah, it’s out, it’s too late, it’s fine. You were probably gonna find out eventually, right? Plus, I mean, it’s not like you can just walk around calling me a bone-strengthener forever.”

“That’s calcium.”

“Close enough.”

“I mean, not really close at all. Cadmium is usually found in batteries, and—”

“Close enough. Gimme that rose for a sec, would you?”

Logan hands it over and patiently waits for his feet to catch up with his mind as Cadmium—well, Virgil—walks away, fiddling with the stem of the flower. “What’re you—”

“Shh, just hold on. Walk next to me and pretend I just said something really funny.”

Albeit in a confused manner, Logan complies, bumping shoulders with Virgil. “Why did you—”

“One of your coworkers over there, from that first fetch quest at your office.” Logan tracks the angle of Virgil’s jerked chin to see Roman glancing sidelong at them. “Okay, hand out.” Virgil slips the rose—now fashioned into a thorny bracelet—over Logan’s wrist, careful to keep the sleeve between the thorns and his skin. “Here, try to look lovestruck or something.”

“I don’t—”

“Come on, we can pretend we’re on a date, it’ll be fun.” Logan (surprising no one) doesn’t know what to do, so he just stares at the rose. “It’ll screw with your coworker so bad, c’mon.” Taking Logan by the rose-adorned hand, Virgil drags him out of the lobby and into the room opposite from where they first met—well, first made eye contact, anyway, but who’s keeping track? (Logan. Logan is keeping track.) It’s probably just his imagination, but Logan can almost feel Roman’s eyes burning holes into his back.

“Alright, my dude, my guy, my home slice of pineapple and cheese,” Cadmium— _ Virgil _ , Logan reminds himself,  _ that’s going to take some getting used to _ —says _ . _ “Walk me through the deeper meaning of this statue here.”

Logan adjusts his glasses, then adjusts them again. It’s admittedly weirder than he expected, being on the other side of this whole tour business. “Right, yes, um, see here, how it’s got blue coloring—”

“Paint,” Virgil corrects.

“Right, so it’s got blue paint along where the front of its teeth should be, and on the CMYK spectrum, blue—”

“Cyan.”

“Is opposite yellow, which represents the sun, and since they don’t have white or yellow on their teeth, but instead yellow’s opposite, it’s implying the absence of sun in their life, which leads to a lack of Vitamin D, the lack of which is a common catalyst for bone pain and muscle weakness. Many people break bones earlier in their life due to being more adventurous, so the artist is lamenting the loss of child-like wonder throughout adulthood by displaying the lack of it in their muse’s smile.”

Virgil rubs the flats of his knuckles along his chin, nodding slowly. “You took more leaps than I’d recommend for a first timer, but it wasn’t entirely terrible.” He angles his head across the room to where a couple of children are complaining loudly about their boredom to an unimpressed chaperone. “Let me show you how it’s done. Don’t take notes, that’s intellectual plagiarism.”

Virgil strolls to the painting just beside the one cluttered with children, folding his hands behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet. A dumbfounded Logan follows close behind. “You know, Logan,” he says in a much louder voice than necessary, “I always knew it was the adults that were wrong.” The kids seem vaguely disinterested at best, but Virgil continues undeterred. Lots of practice, Logan supposes. “I mean, forcing them to do boring stuff like chores and homework when they have the audacity to do this kind of nonsense for fun?” The kids hardly bother to hide it as they turn to listen. However bored they might be, Virgil’s nonsense is surely more interesting than a soccer mom on her phone.

Logan loses the conversation thread almost as soon as he picks it up, but he’s pretty sure Virgil hits some objectively irrational points, including (but not limited to, because Virgil is apparently nothing if not limitless) nature, sticky glitter, scissors, trampolines, cats, a family-friendly version of a particular being in possession of three separate mammary glands from a particular sixth location with a four mile disaster zone radius, and key lime pie.

Once Virgil finally, finally,  _ finally _ stops—for a breath or dramatic effect, Logan couldn’t say—he looks expectantly at the kids. Wide eyed and mouths agape, they simply stare at him, waiting for more. Virgil nudges Logan’s shoulder, gesturing vaguely at the mom that is still paying approximately zero iotas of attention. Logan, understandably bewildered and running low on improv-based creativity, crouches down to balance on the balls of his feet, levels his eyes with theirs.

“Do you know how he knows all that?” The smaller one—a girl of a slight build with braids shooting out the sides of her skull—shakes her head slowly. The boy—her brother, probably—just stares back at Logan. Logan leans in closer, willing a mischievous glint into his eyes as he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “It’s ’cause he’s from Neptune.”

The girl nudges the boy, her braids whapping against her face. “That means he’s an alien!” As his face explodes into a grin, the boy knocks his head against the woman’s leg.

“Mom, mom, that guy’s an alien! He told me so!”

“That’s very nice, Virgil. Is this your way of saying you want to see a different exhibit?” As the mom tugs the still stunned kids away, Logan straightens and glances at his companion.

“What’re the odds, huh? Heck of a coincidence.”

“No such thing as coincidences,” Virgil replies. “Just cloning experiments gone wrong.”

“That is quite possibly the most upsetting thing I’ve ever heard out of your mouth that wasn’t part of a tour.”

“How upsetting are my tours?”

“You  _ did _ find a way to argue that Julius Caesar was responsible for the decrease in skittle flavored chapsticks.”

“One of my best rabbit holes, if I do say so myself.” Virgil glances back toward the lobby and shrugs off his cardigan.

“What’re you—”

“Patton and your coworker dude are both looking over here. Put this on and try to look cute.”

“Try?” Logan pretends not to feel just a little wounded by the implication that he doesn’t already look good and slips the cardigan on over his shirt. Well, he tries to—the bulky sleeves do a remarkable job of getting in the way and preventing literally any leeway past his elbows.

Virgil considers him for a moment before taking the cardigan back. “Got anything on under that shirt?”

“Yeah, an undershirt, but—”

“Sweater off. I’ll hold your bracelet. Quickly, boys, museum’s not open forever.” Logan complies, more out of fear than anything else, and wonders if anyone else has ever gone from ‘fine’ to ‘deeply uncomfortable’ in an art museum before. Mercifully, Virgil is quick as a whip in slipping the cardigan over his bare arms. Logan wonders whether it would be weird to comment on the complete lack of an outstanding smell to mark it as Virgil’s. Rather than supplement the question with evidence, he just watches as Virgil takes his discarded sweater and tugs it over his head.

“Check it out, sweater swap! Here, give me your tie, I want to play with it.” Hardly waiting for permission (which Logan would’ve given anyway), Virgil undoes the tie—a full windsor, if anyone’s curious, which Virgil isn’t and wasn’t—and fashions it into a bracelet. He holds it up to Logan’s rose bracelet and grins. “Matchy matchy?”

Logan huffs a laugh. “Matchy matchy.”

With that fascinating wardrobe change out of the way, Virgil leads Logan into the next room, asking for various opinions about various artworks as he goes. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you stalk my tours when I tell you this, but the next room has, like,  _ amazing _ lighting. There’s this pink and orange mosaic that shines on the floor where—”

True to form, Logan loses track of Virgil’s words as his attention turns to the feel of the cardigan against his skin. He only really finds his way back to the physical plane when he feels Virgil’s hand leave his arm.

“Okay,” Virgil says, “stay right there, put your hand on your hip and strike—yes! That’s it, hold it right there.” Virgil switches from framing Logan’s silhouette with his thumbs and index fingers to snapping pictures with his phone. “Look at the second to last painting on the east wall. No, the  _ east _ wall—okay, that’s south, one more try—hold it! The light here is  _ perfect _ , Logan, hold  _ still! _ Oh, perfection.”

Logan wonders idly whether he looks as ridiculous as he feels. Probably. As he drops the pose and joins Virgil in pretending to terrorize a statue for the amusement of more children, he opens the camera on his own phone. Two can play this game, it’s just that Logan can play it better. At least, provided Virgil doesn’t know he’s playing.

At every chance he gets, Logan snaps a candid of Virgil, doing a very poor job of hiding it. Maybe Virgil’s just pretending not to notice. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, since Virgil stops basically every ten feet to demand Logan use the full potential of the environment. Where Virgil’s shots are all artsy and dramatic and well lit, Logan’s are blurry and consist largely of Virgil fidgeting with the tie wrapped around his wrist. Logan can almost see the headlines now— _ Bigfoot: Spotted en Route to a Job Interview at the Museum! _

“Oh my goodness, you two are so cute!” a little old lady exclaims, shuffling over with a pale pink purse clutched to her chest. To Logan’s relief, she interrupts Virgil from noticing Logan taking a picture of how the filtered light washes golden dust over the sleeves of the grey sweater bunched up to his elbows. Pure luck, nothing more. “Are you on a date? Do you boys want me to take a picture for you?” Logan hides his phone as Virgil glances at him suspiciously in response to the mention of a picture being taken. Perhaps not Logan’s best move, but at least he got a good shot out of it.

“That would be wonderful, actually, thank you so much!” Virgil says, stepping beside her. “Okay, so you just press this button here, and—ope, that was a selfie, whoops! Okay, and just—yep, that’s it, and just press the white button!” The lady grins as she holds up the phone between two quivering hands, waiting for Virgil to finish fixing Logan’s sleeves. Once he’s finally content, he wraps an arm around Logan’s waist and hugs him to his side, resting his head atop Logan’s hair. They both flash bright smiles as Logan leans into the embrace, kind of surprised that he doesn’t have to fake the happy expression. The weight on his head is admittedly pretty alien, but by no means unwelcome.

“Alrighty, I think I got it! I might’ve taken too many, though,” the impromptu paparazzi says.

“Nonsense, I’m sure they’re perfect.” Virgil flutters his hands as if to shoo away the preposterous notion, chattering politely as they look through the pictures. Logan busies himself with staring at a painting to keep anyone from noticing how beet red his face is.

“How long have you two been together? It looked like you were still getting to know each other, what with all your picture taking!”

“Ha, yeah, we just met pretty recently, actually! I do tours here sometimes, mostly at a cheaper rate for high schoolers on field trips.”

The lady places a dainty hand over her lips, her eyebrows shooting up. “My  _ word _ , are you the famous Ya Boi Virgil? My grandson raves about you, he swears you’re the only thing that kept him from failing his art history final!”

Virgil ducks his head, catching Logan’s eye and grinning. “Oh, please, he had it in him the whole time, I’m sure.”

The lady pats his elbow affectionately and sets her sights on Logan. “You better hold onto this boy tight, before someone else snatches him up, y’hear?”

Logan is taken aback, to say the least. “I, uh, yeah. Yes. Um, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.” Nodding like she’s satisfied that Logan can hold onto Virgil long enough to last, she gives both boys a little wave and disappears in the direction of the lobby. Logan sidles up to his companion. “Ya Boy Virgil?”

“Boi, with an I,” Virgil corrects. “‘Mister’ is too official for someone of my caliber, so I modified it to suit my standards. My job here is unofficial, so my title might as well be the same, right?”

“Yeah, speaking of which, what  _ is _ your job? I mean, do you just talk at teenagers for a living, or what?”

“I don’t know, it just kinda happened out of nowhere, y’know?” Virgil moves on to the next room, still scrolling through the pictures. “I’ve been coming here ever since I was little, and I was basically a talking fixture that would history rant at anyone who would listen. The mid-higher ups just kind of unofficially brought me on board and started advertising my tours to schools, since I was already an unpaid tour guide, so I might as well have been bringing in revenue, y’know? I just do Tuesdays and Thursdays because I don’t love charging kids, but sometimes they’ll give me tips, so I get more than just fun out of it.”

Logan nods, trying to reconcile this information with how he’d been raised—attend college, get a job in a competitive field, rise through the ranks, reach the top, then quit and take half the company with you to start your own business. The real company you’d take along was literally the friends you made along the way. “Does that really net you enough to live off of?”

Virgil seems to stiffen at that, and Logan immediately wishes he were off being the only population on Neptune right now. “The fetch quests help, but I do well enough. Thanks for the assumption that I can’t keep my own life in order, though, I really love being looked at as a child. Because of course anyone without a steady nine to five job must be missing some crucial key necessary for surviving adulthood.”

“I—I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“M-mm,” Virgil interrupts, shaking his head. The seconds of silence stretch on, but Logan doesn’t dare speak again. Finally Virgil continues, “It’s fine. I’ve just had a lot of people get on my case about this stuff, and I didn’t really consider it to be first date discussion territory.” Logan nods, an almost imperceptible dip of his chin as he waits for the tension in the air to suffocate him. At Virgil’s continued silence, it becomes increasingly clear that he won’t be speaking first. Logan exhales.

“I really am sorry.”

Virgil stops walking.

“I promise you, it’s fine,” he says, turning to face Logan. “Not even a thing, as long as you don’t bring it up again. I am perfectly alright, see?” He peels his lips back from his teeth in what might be callously called a smile to prove his point.

“Okay, well, um, I’ve got a topic change for you. We’re at the end of the museum.” Logan gestures to the lobby, where Roman is still loitering. Weird. “I, uh, am I going to see you again? Er, can I?”

Virgil hesitates, then holds out his hand. Logan stares at it. “Phone?”

“Oh. Oh!” Logan unlocks his phone and hands it over, watching Virgil add himself to the contacts list—‘Cadmium,’ followed by a battery emoji.

“And to answer your question, yes, we have to see each other again.” Virgil holds up the tie looped around his wrist. “You’ve still got my headphones and that cardigan, so I’m holding your tie hostage until both items are back in my possession.” With that, Virgil spins on his heel and walks out the front door, waving to Patton as he goes. Patton barely acknowledges it, too absorbed in conversation with Roman, who’s pretending not to stare at Logan. Logan doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on how Virgil’s silhouette is imprinted in the ghost of the sunspots in his eyes.


	5. T minus 50 seconds

Logan clutches the laser shooter close to his chest, walking as fast as his feet will allow without full-on running to the safety of a blind spot around the corner (running is against the rules). The red pipes of light beaming from his chest do nothing to calm his nerves, which are more frazzled now than they’ve ever been. Worse even than the time a rumor floated around the fifth floor that Mx. Oatmeal was auditioning candidates to be launched into space to check on the jellyfish. (And in case you were wondering, yes, their last name really is Oatmeal. Please hold your shock.) And if his heart leaps into his throat with enough force to knock him of his breath when his foot catches on a loose seam, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own, isn’t it?

He whips himself around the corner and holds his breath, watching the black reflective wall betray the positions of his pursuers. Their shining blue lights bounce with each of their impossibly quiet footfalls as they swing a hard right turn. One turn too early.

Logan exhales as softly as he can manage, pressing the barrel of his shooter to his ribcage to prevent an inhale too deep, too loud. He releases it, one inch at a time, as his heart rate reluctantly slows. Well, as much as it  _ can _ slow, given the nerve shakedown he’s putting it through by playing laser tag. Why did he let Virgil talk him into this?

_ Because it was the soonest you’d be able to see each other again in person, _ his brain unhelpfully supplies. Logan shakes off the thought, daring another glance around the corner. So thorough is his relief at the empty space that he almost doesn’t notice the swarm of faint blue light advancing from the far end of his hall. His heart finds that familiar place around his tonsils once more.

Clutching the scope to his eye, Logan scurries down the corridor and keeps his eyes peeled for an inconspicuous hiding place, but to no avail. Only one way to go—the last fork at the end of the hall. For all the black lights bouncing around in his skull, he’s surprised he hasn’t been completely blinded yet.

He hesitates at the split, torn between retreading the same ground or making a break for the red base, smack dab in the heart of blue territory. Left or right? Familiarity or safety?

The sound of footsteps hammers to his left. Easily five people, maybe more. Not long behind their broadcasted presence is a herd of blue lights, rattling like so many rain clouds along the walls.

He banks a sharp right.

He ventures down the hall on the balls of his feet, uncertain which way to face.  _ If I continue forward, _ he reasons,  _ I’ll see anyone coming. If I face backward, _ he counters,  _ I’ll know how much distance I’ve got on those other blues. But I already know they’re there, and I don’t know who’s in the direction I’m heading. If I face forward, though, the other blues might snipe me from behind. So might someone in front of me. Or the people behind me might drop off, and I’ll be evading for no reason, and maybe even putting myself more at risk. _

This thought process continues for some time.

He finds himself settling on a weird half-pivot style, spinning back and forth to scope out all directions, rather than, y’know, picking a direction and sticking with it. By the time he reaches the end of the hall, he almost feels optimistic about his chances of not losing any points for his team. This unearned confidence comes mere moments before he rams into someone with the slopes of his shoulder blades.

Logan lets out a yelp, tossing his weapon in the air and scrambling to point it as he whips around to defend himself—or figure out whether he can escape. He hasn’t decided yet.

The gun just about leaps out of his hands again as he locks eyes with Virgil. Where Logan wields an awkwardly large rifle, clunky in his untrained hands, Virgil spins two mini shooters around his thumbs. He likened them to the Splatoon 2 dualies, but Logan wouldn’t know—he’s never played. Supposedly, Virgil’s next mission following this escapade is to be correcting that lifelong mistake.

Virgil, it might interest you to know, is not on the red team. That is, he’s on the blue team. Against Logan. Sorry, might’ve forgotten to mention that.

The correct thing for Logan to do in this situation would be to tag Virgil’s gear with his hand sensors, or just laser the guy point blank. Virgil is much better at thinking on his feet than Logan. Of course, Logan has the detriment of never having played laser tag before, while Virgil apparently has years of experience under his belt, but that’s beside the point.

Aiming his dualies square at Logan’s chest sensor, Virgil cocks his head to the side and levels a grin at him. Overconfident, certainly, but with good reason.

Logan laughs uncomfortably. “What a tangled web, am I right?” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Said the fly to the spider,” Virgil retorts. Luckily for him—or not, as the case may be—Logan is spared from having to come up with a clever remark by the sound of frantic feet. For the briefest of moments, he’s reminded of the ‘...Daddy?’ ‘Do I  _ look _ like—’ vine, but he shakes it off when he sees the kid rushing up to greet him. His chest glows a proud red to match Logan’s as he barrels closer, evading what looks like a distant swarm of blue fireflies. The rest of Virgil’s team, no doubt.

The next few things happen in very rapid succession, much too fast for Logan to keep up with. It goes something like this: The kid trips over his (probably untied) shoes, crashes into Virgil’s back, and saves himself with a somersault before continuing past Logan, evidently unimpeded. To the best of your ability, do try to keep up, because that in itself was only one event, the fallout of which Logan would never have predicted. At least, not outside of a cheesy romance movie. Virgil pinwheels his arms from the kid’s collision, his eyes waffling between the duealies he doesn’t want to drop and the balance he doesn’t want to lose. At the former, he succeeds expertly. At the latter, he fails spectacularly. Logan, in an understandable display of his inexperience, tosses his gun to the side and thrusts his arms out—to steady Virgil, to save himself, he isn’t sure. His answer doesn’t delay long.

Virgil releases the faintest of yelps—almost like when you accidentally step on a puppy’s foot—as he falls forward. He spreads his arms out to avoid literally punching Logan in the face as his momentum knocks both of them to the ground. It doesn’t really register in Logan’s mind what, exactly, just happened, until his heart decides to start beating again. An ache is rapidly forming along the side of his spine, but he ignores it in favor of wondering just how compromising their position looks.

Each of Virgil’s hands—both of which are still holding their respective dualies—are planted on either side of Logan’s head, his bent elbows keeping their faces mere inches apart. Where Logan’s feet drew up to his thighs in an attempt to curl in on himself, their progress is blocked by Virgil’s legs—one knee pressed to the ground between Logan’s, and the side of his other shoe planted firmly against the outside of Logan’s leg. Logan forces himself to draw a real breath, pleading with his brain to depart from its currently wayward train. It sprints in circles like a child thrown from one of those playground merry-go-rounds, whipping in incomprehensible circles without a care for what Logan would rather be doing—which is literally anything else, mind you. The messiness of this metaphor should offer some inkling as to how hard Logan is working to keep up with his current situation.

_ Oh my god, is he going to kiss me, is that what this is, I’ve always seen it in movies but never expected it in real life, oh my god, he’s going to kiss me, oh my god, what do I do, oh my god, oh my god, oh my _ —

Well, you probably get the picture by now. Also some concerns about whether Virgil will take the opportunity to get a point for his team, whether Logan should try to do the same, all that fun stuff.

Logan’s eyes must widen, or maybe his lips part, or something else in his expression betrays the whirlwind of thoughts in his head, because Virgil’s cheeks suddenly turn bright pink, and Logan is pretty sure it isn’t the reflection of the lights on his vest. Well, maybe the lights are helping a little bit, but Virgil’s face certainly wasn’t that red when they first bumped into each other tonight. Logan swallows around a lump in his throat as Virgil freezes, which is at once both better and worse than when he was, you know, existing like a normal human bent over his friend on the opposing team of a laser tag game. What else would be the next most reasonable thing for Virgil to do but jump to his feet, knocking Logan’s gun farther away in the process?

Logan glances behind himself as he props his weight on an elbow, but the kid on his team is long gone. Beyond Virgil, the swarm of blue is still steadily advancing. Virgil spins his dualies around his fingers once more before running to join them.

After he levels a laser shot square at Logan’s chest, of course.


	6. T minus 48 seconds

Logan hisses gently as he pulls the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, setting it on the counter as fast as he can manage to shake the burning feeling from his fingers. “Popcorn’s done!”

“Great, now come pick a stupid show already, so I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my Friday,” Virgil calls back. Remembering to check his pride this time, Logan scoops up the bowl with two objectively safer napkins and peers around the corner of the kitchen wall.

Virgil’s head just barely peeks over the top of the couch, a tuft of pale purple hair sticking out opposite the rest. Beyond him is a daunting list of movies and shows scrolling beneath the Netflix logo. A fifteen second trailer loops for the movie  _ Wreck-It Ralph, _ but Virgil stubbornly refuses to press play. The tuft of hair vanishes as Virgil leans forward and clears off a space on the table for the popcorn bowl.

“Careful, ’s hot,” Logan warns, dropping the bowl on the open spot.

“Noted.” Virgil, after acknowledging Logan’s words (which really ought to be heeded), proceeds to completely ignore them in favor of grabbing more than a fair fistful and popping the whole mess in his mouth. “Ha her he hah king?”

“You want to run that by me one more time?”

Virgil swallows around the lump of butter and grain with a grimace. “What’re we watching?”

“Great question. No more scary movies, you’re cut off from those, but that’s about our only parameter.”

“Puh- _ leez, _ it’s not  _ my _ fault you couldn’t get to sleep last week. You’re the one that kept me up with nervous texts, ’member? I would’ve expected you to be grown up enough to survive watching  _ Nightmare on Elm Street _ . Guess I was wrong, if laser tag was anything to go off of.”

“Laser tag was barely two months ago, and already you’re having delusions about my lacking bravery?”

“Hey, hey, you’re the astronaut in training here. I’m not the one with explicit and express intent to fly a hundred hours of pilot-in-command aircrafts before I turn twenty-seven.”

“A thousand hours, or three years of related professional experience. And if I want to break any records, it has to be before I’m twenty-six. Try to pay more attention when I lecture you about my internship next time.”

“I have to endure a next time?”

Logan shoots Virgil a pointed look, the effect of which is lost to the popcorn kernel lodged between his right molars. He prods at it with his tongue.

“In my defense,” Virgil continues, “this is pretty much the longest a relationship of mine has ever lasted.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Logan isn’t quite sure where all this bravado came from, but it’s doing wonders for keeping his voice even, so he won’t jinx it by digging deeper right now.

“It’s faster to say ‘relationship’ than ‘that dorky guy who hangs out at my apartment every Friday night to make fun of movies because we have nothing better to do as self-respecting adults,’ but I’ll gladly switch to that absurd and overly expository title if you prefer.”

A pout tries to crawl onto Logan’s face, which he promptly ignores. “Point taken. Did you pick a movie yet, or are you just that obsessed with watching a pixelated handyman smile on your television screen?”

“Neither. There’s no good bad movies left on here, so at this point, we’re better off watching something one of us has already seen—”

“Out of the question.”

“—watching nothing—”

“No thank you.”

“—or binging a series show.”

This gives Logan a moment’s pause. “That could work.”

“Right, because watching half an hour of an unending show every week without fail is how I want to spend my next three years’ worth of Fridays.”

“Well, why not?”

“What would we even watch? There’s, like, no serializations that normal people haven’t seen. Everybody’s watched  _ The Office _ —”

“I haven’t.”

“— _ Brooklyn 99 _ —”

“I haven’t.”

“—and  _ Parks and Rec _ .”

“I haven’t.”

Virgil slams the remote gown on the couch and gapes at Logan. “You haven’t seen  _ Parks and Rec? _ ”

“Have you even been listening to a single word out of my mouth?”

“You are an absolute monster. You disgust me. We’re through, no more movie nights. I can’t hang out with someone whose true colors are so monochromatic.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is kidding at this point. “I’m kidding.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is about to add the caveat ‘mostly’ to that statement.

After an uncomfortably long silence wherein Logan looks absolutely anywhere that isn’t Virgil, the speakers proudly announce the sound of Leslie Knope introducing herself to a small child playing in a sandbox. “This isn’t very funny,” Logan murmurs. “I mean, what child would say they were having a moderate amount of fun and somewhat enjoying themselves to a stranger? I suppose I might if prompted, but still.”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Virgil hisses, “this part is hilarious, stop  _ talking. _ ”

“Ha ha,” Logan says dryly. “I love watching drunks hide in swirly slides. Ha.”

“Shut  _ up. _ ” This command is accompanied by Virgil swatting at Logan’s shoulder.”

“Well, hey, can’t we skip the theme song?” Logan is almost hoping he’ll say no, just so these movie nights can be that much longer. Series show nights, now.

“Nope, out of the question. Skipping the intro is cheating and an act of cowardice to the nth degree. Be quiet and enjoy the upbeat music.”

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself enjoying watching the theme song. Maybe it has something to do with how they’re  _ sharing _ one bowl of popcorn, their fingers brushing against each other every so often, rather than Virgil hogging the whole thing for himself. Maybe it’s how their knuckles linger when they reach in at the same time, neither pulling away instantly, but neither vocalizing what’s happening. Maybe it’s how, when Virgil is distracted by people assuming Leslie is dating Ann, he absently lets their fingers link together loosely, too intentional to be a thoughtless mistake. When the scene shifts to some guy named Anthony waving, they both yank their hands away from each other. Logan swears he can feel his nerve endings burning.

Upon the premiere of season two, the distance between them has closed ever so slightly. Rather than being at opposite ends of a three cushion couch, Virgil leans on one armrest and Logan arranges himself on the next cushion over. And if Logan’s fingers wander over to Virgil’s when Leslie marries the two gay penguins (despite the popcorn being well out of reach on the table), and if they hold on long after the credits for the episode have passed, well, that’s nobody’s business but their own, isn’t it?

When the Galentine’s day episode rolls around, Logan has abandoned all pretenses of slowly inching closer, instead taking Virgil’s hand as soon as they’re both seated with their respective mugs. Both cheap water steepings from a broken keurig, of course, but at least they’re enjoying them together. Well, enduring, enjoying, same difference.

“Hey, that’s what you said the first time we went to the museum together!” Logan exclaims, watching the sweater swap moment between April and Andy. Okay, so he doesn’t really  _ exclaim _ it, per se, so much as say it suddenly and without warning—it’d be rather difficult to literally exclaim it, what with his head resting heavy on Virgil’s shoulder and all.

“Oh, right, on our first date, you mean?”

“Our first  _ what?” _

For those of you keeping track at home, yes, Logan has managed to go about six months without realizing that their first date was, in fact, a date.

By the time Chris asks Tom and Jerry to come up with a new logo for the department, Logan is literally sitting in Virgil’s lap with an arm slung around his shoulders. You might liken the position to that of a koala, but then again, Logan didn’t ask you. Full disclosure, they started watching more than one episode a week somewhere along the line, but this was spurred in some part by the need for background noise while they packed everything Virgil owned into a small mountain of cardboard boxes.

“Something to celebrate the occasion?” Logan asks tentatively, holding up a bottle of champagne. This kitchen certainly looks much nicer than the last one, but the leniency of adding paint to these walls was a buffer Logan had sorely missed at Virgil’s old place.

“If you want,” Virgil replies, craning his head over the back of the couch. “But you’re paying damages if you spill it all over my clean floors.”

“Well, duh, I’m paying half the rent, of course I’d fund repairs.” Logan holds back what more he wants to mention, still wary of the sore spot surrounding Virgil’s careers.

“In that case, plop your butt down on the couch we need to replace—speaking of which, we need to figure out a day to descend on IKEA for some upgrades.” Virgil pats his lap and gestures toward the screen—longer and thinner, purchased with some of the funds they’d pooled from their respective savings when picking a place together. “Now, c’mon, we’re about to see the squad go to London. I know you’re all about the architecture over there, aren’t you?”

“As if you even need to ask.” Logan grins, plopping himself down on top of Virgil and whistling along with the theme song.

Living together, unsurprisingly, does wonders for powering through the last couple seasons at a much more efficient pace. In what seems like the blink of an eye, Logan is watching the futures of the main squad playing out as they do one last project, and it’s not a stretch to say he’s holding back tears. As the credits fade to black and  _ The Office _ pops up as a recommendation to watch next, Logan lifts a hand to his cheek and is baffled to find it come away wet.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Virgil murmurs, slipping an arm around Logan’s back and rubbing circles on his arm. “This is the worst part, I know. You’ve never been this attached to fictional characters before, huh?” Logan hiccoughs. “Yeah, I got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Between shuddering breaths that aren’t quite laughs, Logan manages to get out, “It’s like the end of an era. I don’t know, I mean, it’s really over.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie,” Virgil mumbles, pressing his lips against Logan’s hair. “It just means moving on, and I’ll be here for you through it all.” Slowly but surely, Logan’s hiccoughs turn into giggles as the ridiculousness of the situation dawns on him. Why should he be getting so emotional over the end of some tv show? He literally went into this  _ knowing _ the series would have a finale. He says as much to Virgil.

“True, but we sank a couple years into this tradition. You’re allowed to mourn a tradition, even if you think it’s silly. There’s no rules for what you can or can’t grieve, and even if you lie to yourself enough to believe there are, I’ll be here to help you through it.”

“First off, you can’t spell believe without ‘lie,’ and second, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, hon. What would you get out of dealing with nonsense emotions?”

“Besides knowing I get to wake up every morning to see your face?” Virgil pretends to ponder this for a moment, only breaking into a grin when Logan elbows him in the side—not intentionally, mind you. It’s more of an effort to bury his nose in Virgil’s neck, but unfortunately for Logan, Virgil is ticklish right around there. He laughs loudly and announces, “I want the moon.”

“The moon?”

“The moon, spaceman.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll bring you the moon. Is that all?”

“One more thing.”

“One more thing besides the moon, you mean?”

“Well, yeah, you have to know how much the moon costs.”

“How much does the moon cost?”

“The stars.”

“The stars?”

“It’ll cost you the stars.”

Logan shakes his head and smiles, wrapping Virgil in a tight hug and drying his eyes against his boyfriend’s sleeve. His words are no doubt muffled, near unintelligible, but he’s sure Virgil can make it out well enough. “Okay, love. I’ll bring you the moon.”


	7. T minus 45 seconds

On a normal day, Logan will rise long before the sun, smiling at the sound of his pinging alarm clock and taking a luxurious moment to stretch his rested limbs before greeting the world with open arms.

Today is not a normal day.

His eyes stay stubbornly shut as his tingling hand fumbles around in the mess of blankets for his blaring phone. Virgil grunts softly from somewhere under the mound, and in the weak pre-dawn light, Logan can only just make out the ball curled up under the sheets.

When his fingers finally brush over his phone, sending shivers down his spine with the vibrations, he does his best impression of scrambling to turn it off. His sleep-addled body translates this command as wobbly sliding around for the snooze button, stubbornly ignoring the requirement to finish a set of math problems before the noise will stop.

“Should’ve never installed that fancy alarmy app,” Virgil grumbles as the ball shrinks in on itself. Logan squints at the full-brightness screen and scowls, mumbling the two digit multiplication problems to himself. Finally he succeeds, dropping the bedroom back into silence. An arm snakes out from the blankets and pats along Logan’s leg. “Good job, so smart. Go crush that meeting.”

Logan lifts Virgil’s jand and presses a kiss to his fingers, lingering in the moment for just a few more seconds. His own hand feels impossibly cold and empty as he changes and strides out of the room.

The kitchen—more of a kitchenette, really, but who’s keeping track?—is surprisingly high quality, given the deal Virgil managed to land on this place. Granted, it’s all a little cramped and bland, but Logan likes to think of it as ‘begging for an impromptu remodel.’ Which he manages to pull off, all in one go, as the broken keurig sputters to life, shooting wads of coffee grounds along the underside of the microwave.

Logan does not have the energy for it this morning.

He sets on a pot of real coffee to brew in time for Virgil to wake up and transfers the keurig disaster to his own travel mug, slipping in more sugar than it probably needs. He’s in for a long day.

Even the neighborhood is pretty nice, which was Virgil’s main concern when they were scoping out options. Compared to the people on those over-the-top reality shows, Logan thinks their requests were pretty darn reasonable. Close enough to the office to walk, in a nice part of town, and close enough to uber to the museum without completely punching a hole through their wallets. One downside to being so near to the office, though, is that Logan can never be that far from work. Not that this is a bad thing, per se—it’s just that, on the two days a year where he actually  _ wants _ a break, he has to try that much harder to actually achieve it.

There are worse problems in the world to have, he supposes.

His work building looms tall and grey against the cold morning skyline, and the mere sight of it is enough to make him draw his shoulders to his ears. While he’s dressed nice enough for the meeting that could make or break his future, Virgil convinced him to wear the leather jacket over it.

“It’ll make you feel tough,” Virgil insisted, shoving the bundle of well-worn material into Logan’s arms the previous night. “Just enough of a confidence boost for you to nail the crap out of that meeting.”

Virgil wasn’t wrong, of course. Logan finds a certain bounce in his step as he bursts into the stale air conditioning and starts up the stairs. More of a placebo effect than anything else, but he’ll take what he can get. Especially today.

“Hey, Lo!” Micah exclaims, stumbling over his own feet as he bounds down the stairs.

“Gan. Logan,” Logan supplies, reaching out a hand to steady the overstuffed cardboard box in Micah’s arms. “Last trip?”

“Yeah, Alex is gonna bring home stuff I forgot as they find it. Half their desk is mine, basically.” Micah shoulders the drawstring bag around his back to the side, squeezing past Logan to get to the first floor landing. “It’s been a pretty solid run, though. Almost four years? That’s a good record for our floor managing to not kill each other.”

“That it is,” Logan agrees, almost to the next landing by now. It's a shame to see a good guy like Micah go, but internships aren’t permanent, and promotions aren’t guaranteed.

“Hey, wait!” Micah calls. Logan peeks over the spiral railing, now well on his way to the third floor. “Isn’t your big hunga chunga interview today?”

“Yeah, it is, actually. I don’t know when, though.”

“Well, whatever time they come for ya, best of luck. You deserve it.” Micah grins at Logan before scooting out of the stairwell, staggering under his box. Logan smiles to himself, forgetting to remove the expression before he exits onto the fifth floor. The first step in what could very well be a long line of mistakes.

“What’re you so happy about, specs?” Roman asks, appearing at Logan’s side and following him to his desk. “The only times I’ve seen you smile are when you’re with that museum guy.”

Logan takes a moment to breathe, reminding himself that it’s typically frowned upon to sock your coworkers in the jaw. “As I’ve told you several times now, his name is Virgil, and he’s not just some guy, he’s my boyfriend. There years not long enough for you to process that?”

“In my defense, we don’t hang out enough to be familiar.”

“We had lunch with you and Patton last week!”

“Yeah, yeah, bad short term memory.”

“Long term memory.” Logan slides open the third drawer on the right of his desk and pulls out a thick binder, filled to the brim and then some with papers and folders and cascading tab dividers. “Do you want to go to your own desk now?”

“Not really.” Regardless, Roman swings around to the desk that used to be Micah’s—with the intern moving on after more than four years of work, his prime spot desk was highly coveted real estate. The only reason Logan didn’t get it—by seniority, he had first dibs—was because he was used to his current desk. Not to mention the meeting coming up, of course. Ideally, he won’t even need his current desk after today.

Roman pops his head over the partition between Micah’s old desk and Logan’s, undoubtedly standing on the swivel chair for a better vantage point. “So, whatcha doin’?”

“Get off that chair before you hurt yourself. I’m going over major old assignments.” Logan regrets being honest the moment he says it. Now it’s a near guarantee that Roman will try to distract him. He was undoubtedly going to already, but still.

“Oh, right, you’ve got that huge meeting today! I completely forgot.” Roman folds his arms up over his chin, staying shockingly quiet as Logan riffles through the binder. “Hey, wait, that’s that dumb Neptune Theseus riddle!”

“Never did figure that one out,” Logan agrees absently. His eyes linger on the answer circled at the bottom, but he still isn’t convinced he had it right. He pulls the paper out farther.

“We’re seriously gonna get stuck on the Neptune thing again? Are we really digging up that horse to beat it some more? Hasn’t it suffered enough?” Alex groans, rolling over on their squeaky desk chair. While the office sprang for new furniture last year, they didn’t spring very far, since ‘gently used furniture from someone else is still new to you.’ This was met with no small amount of grumbles and dissent, all of which fell on deaf ears.

“No rehashing old riddles!” Cassidy chimes in. As her desk is now right beside Logan’s—replacing Joy’s old spot—she doesn’t have to move far to notice his overfilled binder. “Last minute studying?”

“Lil’ Lolo has his big ol’ test today,” Alex singsongs. “Watch him get higher than Mx. Oatmeal.”

“As if,” Logan scoffs, flipping to a different assignment. Calculating the landing point of a rocket being pulled down from orbit at a given time, assuming this malfunction and that overcorrection. He still isn’t completely convinced they didn’t just rip the problem wholesale from  _ Hidden Figures. _ “And it’s not a test, it’s just a meeting to discuss my upward prospects. Don’t oversell it.”

“I promise nothing of the sort,” Cassidy says. “How much you wanna bet the promotion hinges on that Neptune riddle?”

“Gambling, I like it.” Roman reaches down the partition to snatch up the binder, ignoring Logan’s protests. “Woah, you’ve got things in here from your first week? You know that was all busy work, right? To scare off newbies who wouldn’t put in the work when it counted?”

“Give that back,” Logan demands, reaching toward Roman’s face. He easily holds the binder out of reach, still snooping through its contents.

“Wow, your handwriting really sucks, you know that?”

“Shut up, my mind moves too fast to bother with legibility.” It’s all Logan can do not to stand on his chair and grab back the binder. He’s smart, of course—there’s nothing incriminating on those pages—but he still doesn’t appreciate Roman invading his space like this.

“Illegible handwriting?” Alex repeats. “Sounds like you’re already one of them. Bet you’ll even surpass Joy.” The mention of her name draws the attention of some of the newer interns, whose names Logan hasn’t yet managed (or bothered) to learn. It wasn’t too long ago that Joy got promoted—in the last few months, actually—but she was still on the floor long enough to gain a reputation among the newbies. Her sudden promotion, completely unprompted, elevated her to a godlike status in the eyes of the new kids, all fresh to the inner workings of the program. At least, that’s why Logan assumes they looked up at her name.

He isn’t sure whether he’d love it or hate it if all these little interns would worship him like that.

Before Roman can pitch in his own two cents about the first inexplicable promotion situation, the elevator doors ping open, revealing Joy leaning against the mirrored wall. Cassidy leaps to her feet and sprints across the floor, wrapping her friend in a tight hug.

“You need to come visit us more,” Cassidy says sternly, pushing Joy back by the shoulders to fix her with a pinched stare.

“Acknowledged,” Joy says, barely lifting her chin. The cold silence lasts only a few moments before her facade cracks, revealing a bright smile as she squeezes Cassidy in a close embrace. “Butterfingers around here?”

Logan scrambles to yank his binder back from Roman and hide it in its usual drawer before answering, “I’m over here.”

Joy nods brightly as Cassidy carefully extricates herself from the boa constrictor hug. “Well, better get going, if you’re ready. They bumped the meeting from seventh to ninth, by the way.” She waits patiently for Logan to join her in the elevator, seeming to not notice the awed stares from the newbies. Logan isn’t particularly fond of the sustained silences from his more seasoned coworkers, either.

“Actually, I’d rather take the stairs, if it’s all the same to you.” Though Logan has historically taken the stairs for the exercise, he has a running promise with Virgil to avoid the elevator whenever possible. Virgil refused to specify why, but even if he’d never find out, Logan has no intention to go breaking promises when people aren’t looking. “I’ll just meet you up there?”

Joy hesitates, and Logan wonders whether he just completely screwed himself over, but her expression finally dissolves back into a grin. “Works for me.”

Logan takes the stairs two at a time, chased by the encouragement of his floormates. With every step, he jumps from one irrational worry to another. What if Joy thinks he thinks she stinks? What if she thinks he’s being uncooperative? What if she thinks he’s claustrophobic, and won’t be able to handle something so confined as a rocket? What if this is all a test, and he already failed?

He almost misses the ninth landing as his thoughts swarm. All that piloting time, straight down the drain.

The door can’t open fast enough.

Logan has just barely managed to force his breathing down to a normal level when the elevator door slides open, revealing Joy and—oh,  _ great. _

“She said I should come along!” Roman exclaims, bursting out of the elevator and jumping to Logan’s side. “That they might like a second opinion during your meeting.”

“Oh, great.”

“Yes, well, best be going,” Joy says, leading the boys down the hall to a set of floor to ceiling glass windows. Just beyond the frames is a long oak desk, ringed with cushy black office chairs. Logan wonders how many years it'll be until those become hand-me-downs for the fifth floor.

“I’m so excited,” Roman whisper-shouts. “I’ve never been up here before, besides for coffee runs.”

“This is where I leave you,” Joy says. She holds open the door and waves the boys in, patting Logan on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck. You’re gonna crush it.”

“Fingers crossed.”

“Butterfingers?”

“Almond Joy.” A small smile spreads across Logan’s face as the door softly clicks shut behind them. Across the room is Mx. Oatmeal’s boss’s boss’s boss, Miss Katie-Lee, who literally and figuratively holds Logan’s future in her hands.

That is to say, she’s holding a model rocketship.

“Logan, please, have a seat.” She gestures to one of the several chairs, inclining her head slightly as Logan shakes her hand before sitting. “Oh, good, Roman, are you the second opinion I asked Joy to bring?”

“I am indeed,” Roman confirms, shaking her hand as well before sitting on Logan’s right. “Happy to be here, happy to help.”

“Happy to hear it,” Miss Katie-Lee says, taking her own seat opposite the boys. She pulls a stack of papers and folders from a nearby stool and spreads them out over the table. “Well, well, well, Logan, you sure have been busy these last few years, haven’t you? And I see here you have a change of mailing address, as well as the supplementary switch forms, very good, that’s what we like to see.” Miss Katie-Lee traces her finger down a bulleted list, mumbling to herself as she does. “Tuh tuh tuh, already a good amount of calculations under your belt, mostly correct, that’s always nice. Well on your way to completing the piloting hours, good to know you’re keeping that up. Recent physical on file, yes, sure deal, that makes this several worlds easier.”

She continues talking to herself, flipping between pages and glancing at Logan every so often for a nod of confirmation. “And Roman, you’ve worked closely with Logan, yes? Do you have any pertinent information to share regarding his performance?” She taps a little plastic cube set to the side meaningfully. “This is all being recorded, by the way. My apologies for not saying so sooner.”

Roman sits up straighter in his chair, and Logan immediately wishes he were a popsicle under the California sun. Oh, to be a puddle on the floor, free of the trials and tribulations involved in adult life.

“All on the record?”

“All on the record.”

Roman gives Logan a long look before opening his mouth again.  _ Puddles would be a blessing at this point, _ Logan thinks. Logan would be wrong. “Logan is the single best intern I have ever seen working on the fifth floor. He easily works twice as hard as anyone on a higher floor—no offense—and I never see him without ink staining his fingers. He’s organized down to having a color coding system with his pens based on the difficulty and priority of his work. He’s the first one into the office and the last one out, and all the time in between is time he spends doing the best he possibly can.”

Roman laughs a little, and Logan finally feels his muscles relax, just the slightest bit. “I literally had to personally convince everyone to show up half an hour early today so we could beat him to being early. Basically, Logan is just a guy who really, really cares about what he does. There’s no one else I’d rather see at the top of this field.” Roman hesitates, glancing at Miss Katie-Lee. “Oh, um, not that you aren’t already doing a great—”

Miss Katie-Lee waves it off with a smile. “Thank you, Roman, that was more than sufficient. You can head back down to the fifth floor now.” Logan is still somewhere between numb and frozen as he watches Roman excuse himself, still processing the parade of compliments. He’d always assumed Roman merely tolerated his presence, since it would make being floormates easier than if they hated each other. Huh.

Shuffling the papers back into a neat pile, Miss Katie-Lee switches her gaze from the closing door to Logan. “Can I tell you a secret?” Logan nods, dumbfounded. “I already knew all that.” Logan blinks. “I’ve heard your praises sung by everyone in this building, from Mx. Oatmeal to Joy, to Micah at his resignation, all the way to the janitorial staff. They go out of their way to compliment how much easier you make their jobs, sticking around late to clean up after your floormates. To tell the truth, we’ve wanted to get you up here for a long while, but we just haven’t had an opening. A few transfers, a few drops, and now we find ourselves here.” Miss Katie-Lee folds her hands on the table, leaning in closer. “We want to start training you on level with Mr. Jolenta’s work.” Mr. Jolenta. Mx. Oatmeal’s boss. Logan feels more than a little light headed. “You would see an increase in pay, to be determined at a later date, as well as an increase in workload and hours. On the right path and at the right pace, I think we can get you where you want to go.” Logan nods dumbly, not completely processing her words. “So, what do you say?”

A million things race through Logan’s mind, each slipping out of his hands like an ice cube into boiling water when he tries to grab it. More pay. More hours. Less time with Virgil. A chance at the stars. A chance to move up. Time away from Virgil. Time away from home. Time, time, time. Never enough to give, never enough to take.

“I’d be happy to give you some time to consider—”

“I’m in,” Logan interrupts. His mouth didn’t even wait for his mind to decide, much less his heart. He’ll have to learn to get that under control.

“Well, we’re happy to have you on board,” Miss Katie-Lee says, standing and brushing off the front of her shirt. Logan shakes her hand firmly, thanking her for the opportunity and accepting a spotless new folder from her. He pulls the door shut as he leaves, determined to wait until he reaches his desk before looking at the papers.

The determination does not last longer than two minutes.

New benefits, new hours, new responsibilities, new calculation basics, new new new. The words and numbers and symbols flit around Logan’s mind, a deafening roar that blocks out the curiosity of his fellow fifth floor interns.

Can he call them his  _ fellow _ interns anymore? He’ll have to ask Roman about that.

“So how’d it go?” Cassidy demands, slamming her hands on his desk and getting uncomfortably close to his face. Logan glances at Roman, whose face flushes pink when they make eye contact. He drops behind the partition.

“Spill it,” Alex adds, leaning on Logan’s chair. “It’s not like we didn’t notice that fancy new folder, or that almost smile on your face.”

Cassidy somehow manages to get even closer, and it’s a wonder Logan doesn’t flinch. “Stop the presses, Alex, I think that might be a genuine smile there.”

“Great Scott, she’s right! It’s a real smile! This is one for the papers, folks!”

Logan rolls his eyes and shakes his head good-naturedly, careful to keep the folder pinched shut. “Miss Katie-Lee just offered me a promotion, and Roman helped back up my credibility a little bit. It’s nothing major, really.”

“How high’s the promotion?” Roman’s voice asks. He’s still hiding behind the partition.

Logan glances around, well aware of the newer interns listening closely while doing a terrible job of pretending not to. “It, um, it’s on par with Mr. Jolenta?” It’s not a question, but he manages to make it one, anyway.

The floor is silent for a moment, two, as his words sink in. Alex breaks the silence first.

“Dude, nice!” This call is echoed across the floor, several voices tripping over each other to congratulate Logan. He nods, wearing a small smile and picturing how Virgil’s face will look when he shares the news. Or, wait, no, he’s supposed to be teaching Virgil how to make fettuccine alfredo tonight. That should obviously take precedence.

Then again, a promotion is pretty big. So is getting to cook with his boyfriend. Maybe he’ll tell him over dinner. Just imagining the look on Virgil’s face when he tells him is more than enough to double the size of Logan’s smile.


	8. T minus 43 seconds

If you were to ask Logan, straight faced, no pomp, no circumstance, why he’s waited so long to tell Virgil about his promotion, he would probably do one of two things. Tell you the truth, or walk away in silence. Whether that silence is ashamed is up to you.

He’s hidden the new position for a couple months now—working closely with Mr. Jolenta all the while—and he still hasn’t told Virgil about it. Never the right time, never the right place, maybe he forgets, maybe Virgil doesn’t ask. His only saving grace is how many extra hours he was already working before the promotion—Virgil seems to have hardly noticed his increased absence. Maybe not the best outlook on the situation.

So when Logan leaves work even later than usual, some three aught months after his talk with Miss Katie-Lee, and finds himself caught in a thunderstorm, he wonders whether it would be the worst idea in the world to take it as a sign. If he were the type of person to read into those things, maybe he would.

As it stands, he waves back to Roman, who turns right and away as he leaves for the day. Logan absently thanks his lucky stars (not for the first time) that the old intern never told the news to Virgil. It probably helps that Roman got his own boost—from intern to full timer—but Logan will take what he can get.

He sighs to himself when he sees the apartment building shining between the raindrops. An easily overcome distance never looked so good. Logan picks up the pace, bolting for the stairs as soon as he reaches the complex. It’s a wonder his soaked shoes don’t slip out from under him on the concrete steps. Kicking the main door shut behind him as he enters the main room, he zeroes in on the couch and allows exhaustion to take him over. The new position, while nice in terms of the raise, is more than a little taxing.

A couple hours later, Logan wakes up to his phone pinging with a new message. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and unlocks the screen.  _ Your Boy wants you to look at the island, _ it reads. Roman’s name scrolls across the top of the display.  _ Said you’ll know what it means. _

Logan sends off a thanks to Roman and yawns, glancing at the floating counter in the kitchenette. A travel mug of coffee atop a torn sheet of lined paper covered in dark blue ink awaits.

Lifting the mug to his lips, he reads over the note out of the corner of his eye.  _ Meet at the photoshoot park. V. _ He hesitates, taking another pull of coffee and wondering what a photoshoot park could be. Slowly but surely, an image floats into his mind of Virgil beside a pond, showing off a cardigan that Logan hasn’t seen in ages.

He’s out the front door before the minute hand on his watch can tick over.

Miraculously, the storm has passed, which does nothing to ease Logan’s nerves as he wonders what this all could be about. Maybe Virgil found out about the promotion and got pissed that Logan didn’t tell him sooner. Maybe Roman told him, and he’s mad about having to hear it secondhand. Maybe he started picking up on how much extra wiggle room they’d had in their wallets lately. Admittedly not very much, as most of it goes toward bills that Virgil pretends not to notice, but an extra candy bar in the cupboard is nothing to scoff at.

The whole way to the park, Logan swerves around shrinking puddles that gather in holes burrowed through the sidewalk. With the abating rain and the moon trying to peek through the thinning clouds, his spirits lift enough for his mind to make a decision it has no business making. He’s going to tell Virgil about the promotion tonight, and maybe ask him a certain question that’s been hovering unspoken in the air between them, heavier than he would’ve thought possible these last several months. His hand instinctively flies to the lump in his jacket pocket, the contents of which he’s been carrying around for something to the tune of a year now.

He slips his hand around it as he approaches the park entrance, doing his best to look natural. Remarkably difficult a task, given his train of thought right now, but still. Careful to stay on the least muddy parts of the dirt path—an incredibly low bar to clear, mind you—Logan follows the trail into the heart of the park, taking vague note of how empty it is. Granted, very few self-respecting parents would bring their kids to a park so late at night like this, but the lack of other people is still unnerving.

A wave of relief washes over him when he sees Virgil’s familiar silhouette hunched in front of the pond. With one leg curled up under his chin and the other resting on the ground, Logan might believe he were asleep, were it not for the way he drums his fingers on the red and white checkerboard blanket beneath him. Actually, if the fringed texture is anything to go by, that might just be a beach towel.

Spread across the mat is an assortment of tupperwares with various maroon-tinted lids, each lightly capped and boasting basic picnic food. You’ve got your usual suspects—hot dogs, potato and macaroni salads, orange slices—and then you’ve got what looks like a valiant attempt at pasta. Maybe. It’s definitely a yellowed white, but that’s about all the investigation Logan manages before he notices the plastic tea lights set up around the corner of the blanket. Moreover, he notices the thing absorbing most of their artificial light—his glasses case, resting against Virgil’s side. Would he—? No, he wouldn’t, not with a glasses case.

Would he?

“What’s all this?” Logan asks, feeling the damp grass squelch underfoot as he steps off the path.

Virgil hardly flinches at his approach, not even turning around to address his question. “Just something special I wanted to do for you, since you’ve been so busy lately.” So he did notice. “You gonna sit down, or just keep standing there like a creep-o?”

After planting a kiss on Virgil’s head, Logan tucks his legs beneath him as he takes a position on the other side of the blanket. The glasses case rests between them. He runs his hand over the blanket and nods to himself. Definitely a beach towel. “You really did all this just to give me a nice night? All of it?”

“All of it.” Virgil indicates the various tupperware with a general wave, not looking away from the pond. “I couldn’t find, like, a picnic basket or anything, and this towel ran me a solid nine bucks at Target, but I think I did a pretty darn decent job of making that fettuccine alfredo like you taught me. All by myself, too. Can’t believe you slept through all that prep noise.”

“I’m so proud,” Logan says, scooting closer to wrap an arm around Virgil’s shoulders. “What are the chances you thought to bring along utensils for this little outing of yours?”

“Pretty high, I would say.” Virgil produces yet another tupperware filled with plastic forks and knives and, knowing him, at least one spork. Priorities, people.

Logan follows Virgil’s gaze to the pond as he fumbles around for the nearest tupperware, content to watch the ripples skate across the surface in silence. Granted, they started those cooking lessons a while ago, but Virgil still managed to pull off some objectively impressive work tonight.

As the moon makes its slow trek across the sky, chasing away the last brave clouds into mist, Logan’s mind argues with his mouth over whether now is a good time to tell Virgil about the promotion. The best time probably would’ve been a couple months ago, but still. Just as he resolves to bring it up, Virgil decides his own voice should take priority. Perfectly fine by Logan.

“See that huge moon up there?”

“Yeah?”

“I still want you to bring it to me.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about that. I’m just working out a contract with my people selling me the stars. The moon isn’t cheap, you know.” Virgil nods, quirking his mouth to the side and glancing at the heavens above. No time like the present. “Hey, um, I actually did have something I wanted to talk to you about. Kind of regarding the stars, actually.”

“Well, heck. I had something I wanted to talk about, too. Not regarding the stars, though.” Virgil glances from Logan to the glasses case and back, and if Logan didn’t know better, he might think that was a blush creeping across Virgil’s face.

Maybe he doesn’t know better.

A moment’s pause, and they both say in sync, “You can go first. No, you. Really, it’s—you can—okay, I’ll—” Virgil stops first, pretending to zip his lips. The glasses case stares at Logan. He stares back. The stars, the park, the picnic, the secrecy? What else could it be?

He waits for Virgil to talk again, but his boyfriend merely fixes him with a pointed stare. Logan swallows around the lump in his throat. “So, um, you remember that meeting I had? Like, a few months ago?”

“Oh, right, that huge interview deal or whatever. You never told me how that went down.”

“So as it turns out, um, I got the promotion, and it put me even higher than they told me it might.”

“What! Babe, that’s fantastic news! When did you find out? When do you start?”

Logan sucks a sharp breath through his teeth and winces. “Um. The day of the meeting? Same day offer, next day start.”

Virgil goes stiff under Logan’s arm, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “That, um, that’s great. Really, really good. Why did you not tell me sooner?” Logan can’t bring himself to look at Virgil’s face. He doesn’t want to know if this comes off as bad as it feels. It probably does. It’s probably worse.

“I didn’t, um, I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. It meant more hours, a heavier workload, more things I have to oversee, not to mention that I’m being considered for training to become an actual, legitimate, genuine part of the aeronautic branch of the company.”

Virgil remains silent long after Logan forces the truth out all in one breath, not looking away from a growing ripple on the pond. It bumps up against a rock, rebounding across the surface before dithering to hide in the reedy grass. “I’m happy for you, really, I just—it’s just really sucky that you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“I know, I know, and that was a super bad move on my part. I just didn’t want you to worry, since astronaut work is obviously way more dangerous than basic intern stuff, not that I have to, y’know, tell you that.” Logan laughs uncomfortably. Virgil does not laugh back.

“Yeah, well, no shit, Sherlock.” Virgil finally moves out from under Logan’s arm and whips his head around to stare at him. Logan can’t tell whether he’s mad or hurt or both. Maybe both. Probably both. “You not wanting to hurt my feelings doesn’t make it suck any less that you didn’t tell me about something so big. Do you have even the smallest sense of how crappy this feels for me?”

“I just—no, I don’t. I don’t because you’ve never put me through anything like this, and it’s cruel and unacceptable on my end, and I wish I’d told you sooner, because you being mad at me is just about the worst I’ve ever felt, and that’s not even slightly on you, and I’m so sorry. I know that’s not enough, but I am, and I just wanted you to know that. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I sprung it on you like this. Truly, I am. I care about you so, so much, more than any promotion or any picnic could say.”

Virgil hesitates, working a few muscles in his jaw. “Maybe not just  _ any _ picnic.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Virgil scoots closer to Logan and shifts his gaze to the stars, looping Logan’s arm back over his shoulders. For fear of seeing tears there, Logan doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s okay, just—it’s just a lot. I mean, I’m happy for you. Had to happen eventually, right, so you could work on getting off-planet? That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Yeah, I—it is. It really is.”

“Plus, it might be a little easier for you to get me my present if you can actually, physically go to space.”

“Your present?”

“The moon.”

“Right, right, the moon. How do I keep forgetting that?” An awkward silence falls, during which Logan finds his eyes drawn to the glasses case. There’s no way he’s misreading this, the situation is just way too obvious. Why else would Virgil go to all these lengths to set this up?

When Virgil moves to grab the glasses case, Logan nearly chokes on an inhale.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

“What?” Virgil hesitates, his hand freezing a few inches above the case. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just—just finish whatever you were about to do.” Logan is trying very hard to maintain a passive expression. He is failing miserably.

“Okay, weirdo.” Virgil shifts his body to hide the contents of the case as he pulls it into his lap and stares at whatever rests inside. Silence. And more silence. And more.

“So,” Logan says suddenly. His voice very much cracks. “Um, so earlier, you said you had something to talk about? Not regarding the stars, I mean.” His heart leaps out of his chest as that familiar pinkness spreads across Virgil’s cheeks.

“Right. Yes. Um.” Virgil hems and haws a good while longer, glancing between Logan and the glasses case. “Well, I mean, I guess this is kind of hard to say—not that there’s any easy way to put it, I guess, unless I wrote it on a piece of paper or something like if I had a script, but—”

“Just spit it out, love.”

Virgil swivels the case around to face Logan, who swears he can see a sparkle reflected inside from the tea lights. His heart is now firmly lodged in his throat. “I was reorganizing some stuff earlier, and I think I may have accidentally broken your backup glasses. Sorry about that.”

Logan can only stare in flabbergasted silence as Virgil places the case on his knee, and sure enough, his old prescription rests inside, snapped along the bridge. His heart finds a new forever home somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. “Are you kidding me?”

“I know, I messed up too, but I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“ _ That’s _ what all this fuss was about?”

“I’m not sure I understand your confusion.” Virgil looks at Logan, then down at the case, and immediately straightens his back as his mouth drops into a surprised ‘O.’ “Oh.  _ Oh. _ You thought—oh my god, you thought that I was gonna—”

“Yeah, yes, I did think that you were gonna. I really did.”

“Well, if I  _ were _ to do, you know,  _ that, _ I certainly wouldn’t be so tacky or nervous about it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Logan’s hand falls to the familiar rounded cube in his pocket. “Great, so tell me how you would do it instead, then.”

“Well, y’know, I think I might do it a little something like this.” Virgil leans away from Logan, reaching for something in his back pocket. Logan’s heart is steadily making its way up his spine. He starts shaking his head, slowly at first, then faster, faster faster faster. Virgil produces a little velvet box. Oceans of goosebumps race from Logan’s shoulders to his trembling fingers. When he thought he knew what to expect, he sort of believed it, but seeing it actually happening? Forget it. Out of the question.

“Logan Marcus Walders,” Virgil says, shifting to one knee.

“Oh my god.”

“These last few years have easily been the best of my entire life.”

“Oh my god.”

“No other geeky little shortstop has ever caught my eye so quickly as you did.” His voice cracks on the word  _ ever. _ Logan’s heart is hovering somewhere near the upper limits of the atmosphere right now.

“Oh my god.”

“Would you stop saying that and just let me get through this before I lose my nerve?” Virgil flips open the box and holds it closer to Logan, who is shaking his head faster than ever. He isn’t even certain he’s still breathing, and his heart has left the scene entirely. “You mean the absolute world to me and beyond, Logan, and there is absolutely no one on or above this planet that I’d rather explore it with. You promised me the moon at my price of the stars, but I would sacrifice all of that and more in an instant if you would do me the honor of marrying me.”

Logan shakes his head harder still, unable to form words as tears bead up at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t—”

“Fine, I’ll say it again, but this is the last time, okay?” Virgil licks his lips and gives a hollow laugh. The box trembles in his hands. “Logan Marcus Walders, notable soon-to-be space explorer, ambassador to the stars, will you marry me?”

“I don’t—I don’t know what to—”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Virgil whispers, his voice wobbling more than his hands holding a box holding a ring holding the promise of their future together.

“Yes,” Logan finally manages to choke out. “Yes, yes, a million times over, a million worlds away,  _ yes.” _


	9. T minus 40 seconds

As the weak light of the early morning filters through uncaring blinds to rest on peaceful eyes and worriless blankets, coating the world in a sheet of simplicity that could one day be, Logan scowls at his phone. Though he should be getting ready for the day, pulling on his work attire and preparing a mediocre breakfast for himself, a few sets of pixels on his screen say otherwise.  _ Sebastian NASA office branch closed for the day,  _ the email reads,  _ due to conflicts regarding Roseland fumigation company. Katie-Lee Johnston. _ Logan suffocates the light of the screen in the mattress.

Beside him, Virgil rolls over and tosses a heavy arm around Logan’s waist, dragging him closer and burying his cold nose in Logan’s neck. There’s a brief pause where Logan allows himself to simply exist in the silence, before Virgil opens his mouth and talks into Logan’s skin. “Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you bug me to let go so you can run off to work?”

Logan feels the words more than he hears them, but he sort of forgets about them entirely when his eyes flick down to the ring around the finger holding his abdomen. It’s not until that finger starts drumming a rhythm on his ribcage that he remembers he’s supposed to say something now. “They closed the office for fumigation today. Micah probably forgot a tuna sandwich that started its own ecosystem in the fridge or something.”

“That’s awesome. Free day.” Logan curls into Virgil’s chest as he says this, admiring how the low rumble of his barely-awake voice vibrates through his body before he flips around to face him—ignoring Virgil’s protests. Virgil hugs him closer, tucking Logan’s head under his chin and buffeting some of his hair back with a contented sigh. Logan closes his eyes.

“So what do you want to do with your magical day off?”

Logan considers bringing up the idea of job hunting for a steadier career than art tours for Virgil, but decides he’d rather not stir that particular pot. Not today, anyway. “Wait for the world to stop turning?”

“That might take a little longer than a day. Maybe we would update your wardrobe.”

“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”

“It is woefully lacking in non-work clothes—street clothes, whatever you want to call them—and I cannot be engaged to a man that does not respect himself enough to have a cardigan of his own. I mean, it really is time you stopped stealing mine.”

Logan pouts stubbornly, ignoring the feeling of the cardigan he stole from Virgil burning a hole in the back of his head. “Okay, so wardrobe update day, but why would you propose to me if you already knew I didn’t have any cardigans?”

“You really thought I didn’t notice the box you’ve been carrying around, or how nervous you’ve been since you got it? I couldn’t just let you beat me to the punch like that.” Logan sticks his tongue out and curls up tighter against Virgil, who readjusts his arms to hold him closer. Beneath a mess of blankets and sunlight, they fall back asleep in each other’s embrace.

A few hours later, they wake up in the same position. Logan grumbles softly, more than a little disoriented from the extra sleep. He squints against the light, releasing something between a groan and a whine as he tries to ignore the giant ball of fire maintaining the capacity for life on the planet.

Once his eyes finally adjust, he looks up to see Virgil propped atop the pillow with an elbow supporting his weight. Virgil smiles down at him.

“What’s that face for?”

“What face?”

“That one, the one you’re smiling at me with. Why are you smiling like that?”

“I never get to beat you to being awake. It’s nice to see you all peaceful and asleep like that.”

Logan’s face is on fire. “Shut up.”

Virgil laughs, and it sends shivers down Logan’s spine. “And why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m not going cardigan shopping with you today.”

“Well hey hey hey, let’s not get too hasty here.” Virgil shoves up from the mattress and scrambles off the bed, jumping around the room to pull up his skinny jeans at the same time as he tugs a shirt over his head. Logan does not particularly care for how cold he suddenly feels without Virgil’s arms, but he begrudgingly rises as well. He grumbles the whole way through getting dressed and dragging his butt into the kitchen, where Virgil is already whispering forceful encouragement to the sputtering keurig.

Virgil turns as the keurig quiets down, handing Logan the mug with a Calvin and Hobbes strip along its face. “I think our best bet is probably just to hit up the place where I got my first few.”

“I’m really only along for the ride, but I support you.”

“Cool, because they’ve got this great selection there, and it’s a small enough store that no one else has really flooded it yet, and they’ve even got a few sections of vintage shirts and records and junk. Just hipster enough to be cool but not so hipster that it’s uncool.”

This stunning (and confusing) review is how Logan finds himself in a tiny little shop tucked away in the elbow corner of an ill-frequented strip mall. He stands uncomfortably off to the side, watching Virgil dig through racks of cardigans and hoodies and jackets and shirts and pretty much any other form of clothing that could go on a vaguely humanoid torso. The organization of this place leaves absolutely everything to be desired.

It crosses Logan’s mind that he might’ve lost Virgil for good when his boyfriend—no,  _ fiance,  _ he thinks with delight—disappears into the fabrics completely, and the only sign that he hasn’t literally been eaten by the clothing is the sides of his ratty sneakers peeking out from under the hems of the shorter tops.

Finally, Virgil emerges holding far more clothes than he should reasonably be able to carry, all of which add up to stack higher than his head. No, seriously, Logan is genuinely worried they might knock out a ceiling light or something. Virgil jerks his head for Logan to follow him to the far wall, which is completely covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors and peppered with the odd bench or stool. Joining him beside one of the larger benches, Logan looks on as Virgil dumps everything in a disaster pile and digs through it for one particular piece. Several garments fall to the floor.

“Okay, try this one on first,” Virgil says, pressing a mustard yellow ball of fabric into Logan’s arms. He does.

“This looks horrible. It looks horrible, doesn’t it?”

“Haha, yeah.”

“Well, what the—why would you make me try it on, then?”

“I wanted to weed out the worst ones first, and I’d rather try them out and have them fail than never try them and find out later they would’ve been perfect, y’know?”

“Kind of a messy logic line, but I’ll take it,” Logan says, preparing himself for the onslaught of a fashion show montage of trying on one cardigan after another, complete with Virgil pitching in objectively more accurate opinions. He tosses out points regarding the hang, the hem, the colors, none of which Logan can even begin to follow. He simply allows himself to be shoved into each garment, watching the ‘definite no’ pile shrink to Virgil’s right as the ‘hard maybe’ pile grows very, very slowly.

Eventually, Logan’s discomfort reaches a breaking point, and he starts strutting around as if he’s on a catwalk with the ones he likes best. He even pretends to be a very inaccurate parody of a motorcycle gang winner (whatever that is) when he dons a fake leather jacket, to which Virgil buries his face in his hands like a scorned mentor in the training montage of a Disney Channel straight-to-tv movie. It all dissolves into giggles and guffaws when Logan pulls on a zip-up Hawaiian flower print hoodie.

“Wait, stop, don’t take that one off yet.” Logan freezes, glancing at himself in the mirror again. He wears a midnight blue cardigan that falls somewhere around his knees, and the rib stitching that crawls halfway up his forearms is inlaid with tiny white sparkles that almost make it look like the cloudless night sky. “Okay, hold still.” Virgil flits around Logan like a hummingbird, checking the drape of the fabric, the pull of the seams, and adjusts it all to his unknowable standards. Finally, he stops and stares, facing Logan and just holding his hands loosely between them.

Logan hesitates. “What?”

“I just—this is real.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Us. We’re real. This, you, me, all of it is real.” Virgil lifts their joined hands, looking at the gleaming bands around their fingers. “It’s really real.”

“It really is.”

Virgil shakes his head and snaps back into the moment, clearly trying to laugh off the awkward silence that managed to fall on the store. Logan busies himself pretending he doesn’t notice the cashier staring at them, instead twisting the ring up and down his knuckles and admiring how the engraving rubs against his skin.  _ It’ll cost you the stars. _

Ironic, perhaps, that the ring Logan had carried around promised Virgil the moon. Better, even, that Virgil opted to keep it. A matched set of harmonious rings that no one else could have quite the thrill of understanding that they would.

Or Logan is reading too deep into jewelry again.

Probably that second one.

“Right,” Virgil says suddenly, looking up from his own ring. His eyes look a tad bit more watery than usual. “Yes. Okay, right, let’s go buy that one, then. Good starter cardigan. Good star-digan.” Logan follows Virgil to the checkout counter, where a changing of the guard is apparently in progress. The cashier that  _ definitely wasn’t staring at them _ pulls out their till and vanishes into a back room as the new person slots in their own. Logan freezes.

_ “Micah?” _

“Hey, Logan! What’s pop rockin’?” Micah glances between Logan and Virgil, then down at the jeweled hand pulling out a credit card. “Is this that guy you would never shut up about? Viagra something or other?”

“Virgil Sandovall,” Virgil corrects with a light laugh. “And who might you be?”

“Just the guy that had to endure Logan droning on for years and years about how amazing and cute his Cadmium boyfriend is, no one important.” Micah messes with something on the register, and the price drops a few bucks. “Also the guy giving you a free employee discount, just ’cause I’m so nice, so there’s also that. Primarily, though, the intern subjected to Logan’s incessant gushing. That’s me.”

“I, uh, I don’t know that I was all  _ that _ bad about it,” Logan lies. “And, hey, they’re fumigating the office today for some bugs or something. Did you forget your sprouting tuna sandwich in the fridge again?”

“Yeah, yeah, tall skinny guy,” Micah continues, completely ignoring Logan’s feeble attempt at changing the subject. “You were always talking about what your plans over the next weekend were gonna be, how exciting it would be to go on whatever odd adventure he had planned.” Micah nods at Virgil, who’s barely holding back his own laughter. “Y’know, he hardly ever said a word before meeting you. Then, bam, he comes in one day, ranting about this tour guide from some museum a couple blocks away. I’m pretty sure he almost, like, combusted on the spot when you showed up with coffee for our floor.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Virgil says with what Logan would call an objectively evil grin. “I have never once seen him not raving about space or riddles or whatever quantum something or other, but I am pretty amazing, so what else would he talk about with people who already know everything about space and stuff?”

“Yes, great, can we maybe be going now?” Logan asks. More like pleads.

Micah steamrolls right over him. “I wouldn’t say we know  _ everything _ about space. To be honest, he never missed a chance to talk our ears off about the latest project he had. You showing up was the conversation change that absolutely everyone on our floor was dying for. Ooh, good couplet, let me write that down—I’m a bludgeoning poet, you know.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is  _ burgeoning, _ and no, you’re not,” Logan mutters.

Micah ignores him, instead handing over a bag with the cardigan and receipt as he nods at Virgil. “Not to be a weird cashier barging in on the lives of a couple random customers, but I really do think you’re just about the best thing that could’ve happened to him.”

“Besides his promotion, you mean.”

“What! Logan, you got the job? Dude, that’s awesome!” Micah punches the air a few times as Logan debates the merits of literally being launched into space and landing at terminal velocity on Neptune right this very second. “Hey, Virgil, do you do anything besides fetch quests and museum—”

“We’re engaged,” Logan says loudly. Micah blinks at him as Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Engaged. Me and him. Him and I. He and I. He and me. Are engaged. To be married, I mean. To each other.”

“Right, so I think that’s our cue to head on out,” Virgil says, rocking on his toes. “It was great to meet you. Micah, was it?”

“Yeah, um, yes. Great meeting you, too. Besides when we met on your fetch quest, but—y’know what, never mind.” Micah waves them toward the door, nodding at Logan. “Congratulations, by the way. On the engagement, I mean. And the promotion. On everything, I guess. Oh, on the cardigan purchase, too. Thanks for shopping with us, and all that fun stuff.”

Logan cannot get out the door fast enough.

“That was exciting,” Virgil says brightly. He waves to Micah as the door clicks shut behind them. “He the one that left?”

“Yeah, yes, he just didn’t see any upward movement for himself, and he had an interview set up for this place, anyway. Really good benefits, I think he mentioned. Decent hours.” Logan hefts the shopping bag in his hand, half tempted to do a little spin step right there on the concrete.  _ Engaged. _ It still doesn’t feel real. He wonders if it ever will.

“Here, give me that,” Virgil says, taking the bag and pulling out the cardigan. He settles it over Logan’s shoulders and takes a step back, poking his tongue out as Logan fulfills his spin step temptation.

“Is it good?”

“Yeah,” Virgil murmurs, his eyes catching on the peculiar glint of the sparkling stars. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s really, really good.”


	10. T minus 38 seconds

Logan presses the heel of his palm to his left brow bone, willing back the growing headache as the persistent throb shifts from his eye socket to his temple. Never before has he had such a feeling of homelessness, never mind that he’s already at home. He lifts his fourth cup of coffee to his lips and winces at the bitterness—he’s worked his way down from one cream and two sugars to straight black medium roast. The burning against the sides of his tongue hardly holds his focus anymore.

“You could  _ help, _ you know.” Logan flicks the top of a packet labelled ‘guest list,’ turning to scowl at Virgil. Oh, how helpful and doting a fiance he has chosen, lying on the couch and throwing a baseball directly above his face. The picture of a bored kid in the summertime somewhere during the mid-nineties.  _ Where did he even get a baseball? _ The  _ thwack _ of the ball against Virgil’s palm is an infuriating rhythm that beats the ache further into Logan’s skull. Logan wants to scream.

“I assure you, I’ll only get in the way of whatever you’re trying to do.”

“Whatever I’m trying to do?” Logan repeats incredulously. As if he isn’t literally planning—well,  _ trying _ to plan their wedding, also known as one of the biggest nights of their lives. The literal official first night of their lives together. “Be better to have you getting in the way at all than to try to deal with all of this by myself, but you go ahead and do whatever makes you happy. Just like you always do.”

Logan didn’t bother to lower his voice with his snide remark, so there’s absolutely no doubt that Virgil heard him, but the baseball just keeps on  _ thwack, thwack, thwacking. _ The sound is impossibly grating on Logan’s ears, and he briefly fantasizes about hitting the ball with a thrown pen at the exact right moment and velocity to send the whole caboodle flying out the window. His fantasy is hindered by the fact that Virgil is on his right and the window on his left, but fantasy Logan’s fantasy pen could probably pull off a solid fantasy one-eighty like that.

“Okay, so we’re going to pretend this isn’t upsetting me as much as we both know it is. Got it. Great. Moving on.” Logan shuffles around more papers, rolling up a few and rapping them against the side of his head. A resounding, not-quite-satisfying  _ bonk _ sound is his only reward. “So what about party size? How many people do we want, and from which side? Do you want to stand or walk? Big party, big reception? Different invitees? All the family? Friends? Can we be picky about who comes, where they sit, whose existences they’ll invalidate? Or we could just go to the courthouse today, sign the papers, and skip the rest. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Great, thank you, that is very helpful.” Logan adds another question mark to the running checklist on his notepad. There are a lot of question marks. Truth be told, they look more like claw marks, tearing literal holes in the paper to stain the next page.

Logan is not very happy about how this is going.

“How about the venue? We could do indoor, outdoor, transitional? How far should the reception be from the ceremony? How soon, even, do you want to have it? Obviously the season we have it during will impact all of this, too, which brings us back to a plain old courthouse union today.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, gold star fetch kid, that’s not exactly a good enough answer, is it?” Logan spits, whipping his head around.

_ “Ow!” _ Virgil lurches up from the couch, pressing a hand to his forehead. Logan glances down to see the baseball bumping up against the side of his shoe. “What was that for?”

“You dropped the ball, not me.” Figuratively  _ and _ literally, as it would seem.

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

“Sorry. Sorry, it’s just—there’s a lot to deal with here, you know?”

“Alright, okay, nothing worth fighting over, let me just take a look.” Virgil does an overdramatic job of getting to the table, leaving one hand on Logan’s chair as he uses the other to rub at the rapidly purpling bruise on his face. “So what do we have going on here, then?”

“Everything. Literally every single thing, except for who the groom and groom will be. Absolutely everything else besides that is what we have going on here.”

“Oh, cool, so it’s gonna be that kind of attitude tonight, is it? Let me go get some popcorn.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Is that a fact? Do continue, dearest darling, I am  _ ever _ so intrigued as to what you could have  _ possibly _ meant by that.”

“Fine, so maybe you don’t know what I meant, since you clearly don’t know anything else on this list, either. Is that correct? Is that enough of a fact for you, dearest darling?”

“Oh, boy, and that kind of conversation, too? Tell me how I got to be so lucky!”

“I know it’s not the best conversation, but we do have to talk about it eventually, Virgil.”

“I know that,  _ Logan. _ I’m not an idiot,  _ Logan. _ ” Virgil snatches a piece of paper at random and reads it over in silence as Logan fidgets with the papers farthest from Virgil. “Why are these ones crossed out?”

Logan glances over as Virgil shows him the page of venues. “Because we can’t afford them.”

“Then why did you print it off?”

“Because they looked nice, and I was ignoring prices when I printed everything. I just moved them to the back of the packet when I collated it all.”

“But if you  _ knew _ we wouldn’t be able to afford it, why wouldn’t you—”

“Because maybe I was thinking that you would’ve locked down a job steadier than an inconsistent museum tour guide who knows how to order coffee in bulk by now!”

A harsh silence descends over what suddenly feels like an incredibly small kitchenette, even by cheap apartment standards. The worst that silence has ever felt, worse than Logan has ever dared to imagine. He tastes acid.

“You did not just say that to me.”

“Cad—”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ use that name with me, not right now. You did not just tell me that I’m the reason you can’t have the dream wedding at the dream venue with the dream yes-man that you’ve always wanted.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair—”

“I don’t give two flying—” Virgil stops, lacing his fingers together and burying his nose in the crook of his thumbs. He closes his eyes with a deep breath, and when he opens them, Logan sees an iciness unparalleled by any frozen ocean Saturn’s sixth moon could hope to boast. “I don’t want to hear what you deem to be fair or not fair. You do not get to tell me that my choice to have a career outside of what you deem  _ normal _ is a mistake, much less can you say that it’s why you can’t have your ideal venues.”

“I never said that!”

“Then what  _ did _ you say,  _ Logan? _ What did you  _ mean _ to say? Did you  _ mean _ to say you support the way I’ve chosen to live my life?” Logan remains silent, staring very intently at the papers as he shuffles them together, setting them perfectly even with the edge of the table. There’s a painful, stabbing heat behind his eyes. “Say it. Say you support me, or we can end this conversation right now, and I can take my mediocre tours and coffee bulk ordering skills, and I can go.”

“Virgil, you know how much I—”

“No. That is not what I asked.” Virgil’s voice drips with venom, hateful enough to make Logan’s skin crawl. The heat behind his eyes surges forward, and his entire skull aches and pounds. “I want you to tell me that you support the life I’ve chosen to lead, or else I’m leaving. Right now.”

“Virgil, please—”

“Three.”

“You know that I’ve never—”

“Two.”

“I just want what’s best for—”

“One.”

_ “You cannot expect me to continue working myself to the bone so you can keep playing summer vacation for the rest of your life!” _

Virgil reels back, crossing his arms and presumably looking at the table, or else glaring at Logan. Logan will not— _ cannot _ —look up. “Okay.”

“Wait, Virgil, that’s not how I—”

“No, it’s fine. It is. It is how you, and I get it.” Virgil grabs a jacket off of his usual chair and walks out the door.

The door clicking shut quietly is infinitely worse than if Virgil had slammed it. At the very least, he could’ve left with a goodbye strung together with curses and shouts. Logan looks at the papers and wonders when those wet spots got there.


	11. T minus 37 seconds

In the few days since Virgil walked out (on Logan, on the planning, on  _ everything _ ), Logan has accomplished next to nothing. There were complications that kept the office closed a few days longer, all of which Logan spent pacing the apartment and sending countless unanswered texts to Virgil.

To get technical, Logan spent the first hour or so sitting at the table, motionless and staring at the papers. Next came a couple hours’ worth of punching the air, punching pillows, punching pretty much anything insignificant enough that it wouldn’t cause concern upon being punched. Following that little rage fest, Logan realized maybe he should try to talk to the runaway would-be groom. It started with one text every few hours, then once an hour, every half hour, and ultimately Logan threw his phone in a rage at (a carefully selected soft spot on) the couch and stormed into the bedroom to sulk.

Cut to now, where Logan is hunched over on the recliner and staring at his silent phone. Not one answer. Not even a read receipt. Nothing so small as social media activity, like a relationship status change from ‘engaged’ to ‘moving on and better for it.’ Logan briefly considers posting wanted signs around the building, but ultimately decides against it—mostly because his printer is broken. Finally, he snatches up his phone and does something he never would’ve expected of himself.

He calls Virgil.

This is an incredibly desperate last ditch effort, since Logan knows how much Virgil hates talking over the phone, but he’s desperate. The phone rings softly in his ear. One ring, two, three, four—

Someone picks up.

“Virgil, oh my gosh, I’m so glad I reached you, I didn’t mean any of it when I—”

The voice that interrupts him does not belong to Virgil. “Hey, Logan, this is Patton.”

“Patton? What—where’s Virgil? Why do you have his phone? Is Virgil okay? Is he hurt?”

“He—he’s fine, Logan. He’s perfectly alright, but he wanted me to ask you to, um, to stop texting him. And I guess to stop calling now, too. Please. Sorry.”

“Can you at least tell him—”

“No, I really—I don’t think that’s my place, really, to share whatever it is you want to tell him. I think you need to tell him yourself, and only when he’s ready to see you. On his terms.”

“Patton, I can’t exactly do that if I don’t know where he is.” There’s a kind of stilted silence, where only the muffled mumbles of Patton’s voice make it over the receiver. Logan can just barely hear the faintest  _ s _ and  _ t _ sounds, but that’s it.

A soft inhale makes it across and Logan’s breath catches in his throat, but his hopes immediately falter when Patton’s voice is the one to return. “He doesn’t want to talk right now.”

“But I  _ need _ to talk to him about—”

“He doesn’t want to hear it. I’m sorry, Logan, but I really have to stick with what Virgil wants here. I think you need to hang up now.”

“Patton, wait,  _ please, _ I need to talk to Virgil, I need him to hear—”  _ Click. _

Logan is pretty sure that’s the sound of his heart splintering into pieces. He glances at the list of recent calls, almost none of them outgoing. Micah, Cassidy, Micah, Joy, the main office line, Micah, Micah, Micah, Cadmium. Micah likes to call him with updates about the local restaurant scene. Logan holds back tears as he switches over to his recent texts, all to Virgil. He slumps on the couch, reaching out a hand to steady himself with every passing Cadmium, Cadmium, Cadmium, a never-ending list chronicling three years that he threw away in a few seconds because he didn’t agree with Virgil’s career choices and drove away the only person who seems to actually like talking to him or tolerate—

Logan switches to his contacts list. It’s not terribly long, and it matches his incoming calls almost point for point. The only additions are his parents and Roman. Alex refuses to give out their phone number when they can just borrow signal from whoever’s nearby. Saving minutes, to put it in their own words. Tough to save what you never had in the first place, but Logan is hardly one to talk.

He quickly rules out most of the people from the office as well as the building itself, as he doesn’t need to bother his coworkers on their day off. His parents certainly don’t need to worry themselves with something so trivial as this, and Cadmium is out for obvious reasons. He could probably bug the newer interns, but he’s felt awkward talking to them ever since the main huddle with Roman, Micah, Alex, Joy, and Cassidy fizzled out. A few years’ work together, all down the drain. He tries Joy first, given that they have that candy bar nickname deal going—or they did, though it’s been a while since they last did that pas de deux—but she doesn’t answer.

“I guess I do talk to Roman sometimes,” Logan reasons to himself. “Nowhere to go but up, right? Rock bottom Roman, don’t wear it out. Already talking to myself, so jot that down, surely I should mark this as being my lowest of lows. Don’t call yourself Shirley.”

He keys in Roman’s number. There’s a ring, another, too many rings, way too many, and just as Logan is convinced he should hang up and sulk in silence some more, someone answers. Hopefully the person he actually called this time, and not a messenger middleman intent on crumbling his soul like a Nature Valley granola bar. Hopefully, even if it  _ is _ another messenger, it’s not one of Roman’s rotating one night stands or something.

Logan really doesn’t know all that much about Roman.

“Go for Roman, what’s pop-rockin’?”

“Hello, this is Logan Walders, and did you steal that turn of phrase from Micah?”

“Ha! Please, Micah stole it from me. I’m the originator, he’s just a petty copycat.”

“Yes, great, very good, so the reason I called you—”

“Hey, can you believe the office is closed again? I mean, come on, right? Great news, yeah? I’ve been putting off this major project for, like,  _ ever, _ and it’s not like I’m actually gonna  _ use _ this free time, but hey, day off, you know? Hope we still get full pay.”

“Roman—”

“Plus, I know you’ve got those huge reports due up soon, and weren’t you trying to submit those forms for the training program before the early admission deadline?”

“Yes, but I wanted to ask you—”

“Or no, you already had the forms submitted, didn’t you? You were just waiting for Katie-Lee to give you the go-ahead, weren’t you?”

“ _ Miss _ Katie-Lee, and yes, but that isn’t why I—”

“Right, her, isn’t she great? Still can’t believe she gave me that promotion right after you, makes me think there was some kind of nepotism involved, since it came right after your triple boost up, y’know?”

_ “Roman!” _

“What’s pop-rockin,’ my good man?”

“Roman, Virgil left.”

A beat of silence.

Another.

Another.

“Virgil did what?”

“Virgil—he—I said some stupid stuff about how he doesn’t work a quote unquote  _ real job _ , and he walked out, and I don’t know what to do, and I can’t—”

“I’m on my way.”

“Wait, Roman, don’t just—”  _ Click. _ Logan wonders whether he’ll ever be able to get through a phone call without having to hear that infernal noise against his will. Probably not any time soon, if ever.

So he sits. And he sulks. And he waits for the world to stop turning. And he sits. And he sits. And he sits and he sits and he sits and he sits and maybe a tiny little tear leaks out of his eye as he sits and he sulks and he wishes he could have Virgil beside him to make it all just go away. Like he did a couple days ago.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door, and Logan just about leaps out of his skin before he realizes that Virgil wouldn’t be knocking, since he has his own key. Logan is not as fast in getting to the door as he could be once he realizes this.

Seeing Roman on the other side is more jarring than one might expect, until it’s considered what Roman has elected to wear on his day off.

An off the shoulder, deep ruby top, paired with a pale pink scarf, a plaid red jacket tied around his waist, and torn up dark grey leggings. To be honest, the high heeled white ankle boots just pull the whole look together. So maybe you can imagine Logan’s surprise when this is the first outfit he’s seen besides his own in days.

“Roman, what are you—how did you even know where my new address was?”

“Wow, you live like this?” Roman steps past Logan into the apartment, glancing around and ignoring Logan’s protests.

“I don’t—how did you get this address?”

“I make it my business to know where my coworkers live for impromptu surprise parties as well as emergencies, so there’s never time wasted trying to deal with travel apps and messages, y’know?”

“I never gave you clearance to see—”

“And I never asked, which was obviously the right move, as I’m here right now, when you so obviously need me.” Roman stops in front of the couch and turns to face Logan, holding his arms out to the side. Looking for a hug, apparently.

“What are you doing.”

“You need to hug it out.”

“I do not need to hug it out. What are you doing in my home.”

“Hug it out. I’m not leaving until you do.”

Logan throws his hands in the air and huffs, toeing the door shut and trudging his way into Roman’s boa constrictor hug. He freezes, melts into it for a split second, and pushes himself away. He also pushes away the urge to run back to the comfort of Roman’s arms, but we’re not talking about that right now. “So tell me how you got into my secure personal file without my permission or written consent.”

“Not important.”

“I really think it is, though.”

“Okay, but, like, it isn’t, though. What’s important here is what’s going on between you and Virgil.” Logan blinks, unaccustomed to Roman being the one to steer the conversation in the right direction. “So tell me what happened. Start with why you decided it wasn’t important that I hear about you getting engaged sooner, then skip ahead to why I’m here. Leave out the part about me accidentally-on-purpose stealing your address.”

Logan lowers himself to the couch again and lets it all out at once, trying not to notice how awful each word sounds as he hears it fall from his own mouth. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? It’s not like I can judge the jobs he chose to have, can I? I mean, he’s had these jobs longer than he’s known me, let alone how long we’ve been together. It’s all so stupid.”

“That’s not—it’s more complicated than that, and clearly you know it, or you wouldn’t have called me in the first place.”

“But I still shouldn’t have—”

“But you did, and you can’t take it back, and that’s okay, isn’t it? Because you would’ve had to talk about it sooner or later. You got it out of the way, and that’s all that really matters, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like the worst person in the world right now.”

“Low bar, but okay. You had the discussion—”

“More of a yelling match.”

“—and now you have to deal with the fallout. Do you know where he is right now?”

“Probably hating me and every word that’s ever had the misfortune of leaving my mouth.”

“Not a valid or accurate answer, my guy. You need to talk this out with him, and the longer you wait, the worse it’ll hurt when it heals.”

Logan cocks his head to the side and gives Roman a long look. “Since when were you allowed to be smart about this kind of thing?”

“Since it’s in my name. Roman-tic.”

“More like your name is in the word, I would say.”

“Well, anyway, you need to talk to him. Do you have an actual, legitimate idea of where he might be?”

“Somewhere with Patton, probably, since Patton picked up the last time I called Virgil’s phone.”

Roman jumps to his feet and bolts for the door, leaving a very confused Logan alone on the couch. “What’re you waiting for? Let’s go!”

“Go where?”

“Patton’s been my best friend since, like, diapers, basically. He doesn’t like to be on the phone when he’s on shift at the museum, so he’s probably at home. I think tonight’s his night with his kid, actually, but Ariel might be there, too. I’m over there, like, every third day. You should know that by now, I mean, we’ve had coffee together, like, so many times. Come on, man.”

Logan nods absently, his mind prompting him with a vague memory of when he saw Roman hanging out at the museum on that first real date with Virgil. Maybe he’s just a little too hysterical at the moment to keep track of the people he’s been friends with for over two years. It’s not as if Roman didn’t already mention Patton constantly before Logan even met Virgil. Logan just wasn’t listening back then.

He barely remembers to grab a jacket from the coat rack as he follows Roman out the door, shouldering it on as they thunder down the stairs. His new cardigan. How appropriate.

“My car’s right over there, you can hop in the passenger seat. It’s maybe a ten minute drive, tops, but you have to listen to my music. I’ve got a good rhythm going with this playlist right now.”

Logan complies, and most of the trip is just a blur as he runs over the possible scenarios that might play out here. Virgil hates him and dumps him and flees the country. Virgil hates him and dumps him and starts dating Patton. Virgil hates him and dumps him and starts dating Roman. Virgil hates him and dumps him and steals Miss Katie-Lee’s job to hold a sadistic kind of power over him. Virgil hates him and dumps him and that’s just how it’s going to be, and there’s nothing Logan can do about it.

It is not a very fun car ride.

Logan vaguely registers Roman shifting the car into park, but he’s too focused on the lines of cookie cutter houses to react to it. A bunch of prim little gardens along prim little buildings that probably hold prim little families that have never had prim little fights because their prim little parents hate their prim little husband’s prim little jobs.

He traces his eyes down the sidewalk, watching a squirrel chase an imaginary acorn. Maybe he’s actually watching the imaginary acorn roll up the tree looming over the road. Maybe the squirrel isn’t chasing anything at all. Who’s to say? Certainly not him.

“Logan?” Logan offers a vague grunt of acknowledgement. “Logan.”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“We’re here.”

“We are.”

“So you need to get out of the car now.”

“I do not need to do that.”

“You do.”

He does.

He takes his sweet time unbuckling and getting out, closing the car door as softly as possible behind him. “Whoops, ha, didn’t quite close all the way, let me just—”

“Logan,” Roman says firmly. He leans across the seat to close the door himself. “Go.”

Logan blows out a big breath with his cheeks puffed up, turning to face the prim little house—or is this one a little prim house? You know, the one with a cute little set of bright blue flowers around the personalized address sign to match the boxes of plumbagos and hydrangeas.

His feet, apparently more impatient than Roman, carry his body to the front door without his permission, and his finger lifts to the doorbell long before he notices how high his hopes have risen. He wonders whether someone could see them floating over his head if they looked close enough. The bell chimes a bright, lilting melody that rings in his ears, still echoing through the house when the door swings open to reveal Patton in pajama pants and bunny slippers.

“Hey, Logan.” There’s no cheer in his voice, and Logan thinks falling straight to the center of the earth sounds pretty good right about now. “What’re you doing here?”

“I, uh, Roman brought me.” Logan angles his chin toward the car, where Roman is sticking his head out the window.

“Hi, Patton!” he yells, waving his hand excitedly.

Patton waves back, then returns his focus to Logan, his demeanor shifting from cold to cheerful and back in an instant. “Virgil explicitly said he didn’t want you coming around. D’you remember that?”

“I know, I know, but just—can you give him a message for me?”

Patton folds his arms and clicks his tongue, running his eyes along the top of the doorframe. “I guess I could, but I can’t promise he’ll want to hear it.”

“I—I know that.” Logan hesitates, unsure how to say what he needs to say when he knows it’ll have to filter through Patton’s head, through Patton’s voice. Yeah, he trusts the guy, he’s gone out for coffee with him quite a few times before, but personal things are personal for a reason. He swallows. “I know he won’t want to hear it, but I still need to say it.”

“Might want to be quick about it. Think your ride’s getting kind of impatient.” Patton nods at the car, where Roman is enthusiastically dancing to a song Logan doesn’t recognize.

“Just—just tell him I’m really sorry, okay? I know that’s lame, and cheap, and doesn’t even begin to describe how awful and gross and terrible I feel about what I said—well, more  _ how _ I said it, because I do think it’s a conversation we need to have eventually—but anyway, I need him to know I feel like complete crap for what I said and how I said it.

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh out of nowhere when he’s made it clear before that it’s not a conversation he’s ready to have yet, and I should’ve been more accepting of his terms, and I should’ve just accepted that I was having a rough day, and I unfairly took it out on him, and I shouldn't have blamed him, and I messed up so, so bad, and I  _ know _ that, and I just really, really,  _ really _ need him to know that I get that I made a mistake, and I was in the wrong, and I just need to talk to him again, even if it’s for him to yell and scream at me and tell me how awful I am because obviously that’s what I deserve, or I wouldn’t be here.” Logan exhales, a big, loud, broken noise, and shakes his head, and stares at his shoes, and wishes he were on Neptune right about now.

He glances to the side when he feels something soft and heavy come to rest on his shoulder. Patton’s hand. He follows the line up to Patton’s shoulder, his chin, his eyes, and pretends not to notice the water swimming there. Or wait, no, maybe that’s not Patton’s eyes welling up. Maybe it’s Logan’s. Neptune is only about twelve earth years away.

“It’ll be okay,” Patton murmurs, pulling Logan into a careful hug. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.” Logan tries to stay stiff, to not accept the embrace from the person keeping him from the only guy in the world he wants to see right now, but he can’t really help himself. He buries his nose in Patton’s hair and sniffs and furrows his brow and tries to hold in the soft sobs as he chokes for air.

“Logan?” Logan is pretty sure his heart stops beating right about then.

He looks up and over Patton’s shoulder to see Virgil standing around the corner, arms wrapped around himself as if to keep warm. “Virgil, I—”

“Don’t, not yet,” Patton murmurs, pushing Logan away. He glances back at Virgil, his gaze a silent question, and Virgil lifts his chin ever so slightly. Patton looks to Logan. “I’ll be out here, give you some privacy.” His voice up until now, save for the initial coldness, has been relatively soft, but his grip on Logan’s arm is suddenly unbearably tight as he yanks him closer. Logan tries not to shudder at the feeling of Patton hissing a warning directly into his ear. “If I hear so much as a peep of distress from Virgil, I will not hesitate to have you thrown to the curb in ten seconds flat, so don’t you dare try me.”

Logan’s eyes go wide and he nods, flattening himself against the wall as Patton strides out. Logan glances at Virgil and is pretty sure he can feel his heart literally imploding. “Hey, Cad—Virgil.”

“Hey.” It’s all Logan can do not to sprint to Virgil and wrap him in a hug, but he manages to restrain himself. For now, at least. “You can come in, I guess.” Virgil turns on his heel and shuffles deeper into the house—presumably to the living room, where Logan follows silently.

In a big room with vaulted ceiling and comfy furniture, Virgil slumps on one of the larger couches and stares blankly at Logan, who stays standing. “Well? Say your piece already so you can go. What do you want to talk about?”

“I—everything, I think. I wanted to apologize.”

“Great. Do that and go.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Underwhelming. Great to see you again. Bye bye.”

“Wait, I didn’t—that’s not how I wanted this to go.”

“Then why don’t you tell me how you  _ did _ want it to go, because so far, I’m not impressed.”

Logan forces a deep breath through his lungs and prays it’ll be enough to keep himself going. Somehow, he doubts it. “I was wrong to go off at you, and I get that, and I’m sorry. I still think it’s something we do need to talk about, but I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like I did, so I’m sorry for doing that to you.”

“Cool.” Virgil’s stiff response hurts worse than if he would just lash out or scream or something, and Logan kind of wants to scream himself.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You don’t have anything you want to say to me?”

“Logan.” Logan hates how cold his voice is. “I’m not going to apologize for walking out on an attack on my life choices just because it would soothe your ego.”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t expect you to do that, but aren’t you mad at me? Don’t you have anything to get off your chest?”

“Why yes, Logan, I am mad. Thank you for asking, and for considering my perspective for once. I’ll make sure not to let it get to my head. Or did you just wear that cardigan to make me feel better? Aw, Logan, you  _ shouldn’t _ have.”

“Okay, so you don’t want to yell at me? Get loud, blow up, start screaming?”

“Not really. I know you made the choice to be a jerk, so I’ve made the choice not to deal with it. Pretty simple, really. I’d expect a rocket scientist genius like you to be able to figure it out, even without doing any actual rocket science.”

Logan elects to ignore that little jab. “You don’t want to yell, to let it out? It’s not important enough to you that you vocalize your anger? It’s not important enough for you to fight over it?”

“No.”

“ _ I’m _ not important enough to you that you’d want to fight over it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s familiar, isn’t it? Because when we were twisting  _ my _ words around, you sure didn’t care about the letter of the language, did you?” Logan can feel himself getting hysterical now, louder by the second, but he doesn’t care. “Does it bother you to have your words twisted around and thrown back at you like that?”

“Sure it does, but why should you care? Not like it’ll harm your precious little office job.” Virgil’s calm, steady voice is only that much more infuriating, and Logan wants to throw something.

“Don’t you want to scream? To yell, to tear me to pieces?”

“Why?”

“Come  _ on!” _ Logan is desperate now, balling his hands into fists at his sides, working the muscles in his jaw and wishing Patton would follow through on his little threat right about now. “I’m being such an  _ ass _ to you right now, why won’t you fight  _ back? _ Yell, scream, tell me how awful I am to say all this  _ shit _ to you,  _ about _ you!”

“Do you want me to do that?”

“Stop being so damn calm and just tell me how much I suck, how awful I am, how hard I insulted you, how hard I  _ am _ insulting you just by being here when you told me to stay away and why I’m in the wrong and you deserve so much better than a pompous perfectionist who can’t handle even the smallest thing going wrong in his perfect world without tearing the whole production to pieces because one single variable has the nerve to go against the arbitrary grain!”

Virgil doesn’t even blink, his expression painfully neutral. Fewer emotions on his features than there are ripples on a frozen pond on a windless day.

“Scream! Yell! Curse or break or something or  _ anything, _ I don’t  _ care, _ but give me some kind of reaction, tell me we jumped into this engagement thing too soon and too fast, tell me I was wrong to blow up at you like that and like this so we can just get it over with and you can dump me and tell me how much you hate me and we can both be done with this mistake of a relationship!”

A painful beat of silence. Logan relaxes his fists, breathing heavily and wishing his face weren’t as pink as he knows it is. It always gets so blotchy, so messy, so  _ horrible _ on the rare occasions he gets all worked up crying like this, an irrational, ridiculous mockery of his usual put-together facade. There’s a reason he doesn’t let himself break down like this when he can help it.

Evidently, he couldn’t help it this time.

He can’t even bring himself to look at Virgil, just trying to focus on a fiber in the carpet and sniffling quietly.

“You think this relationship is a mistake?” Virgil’s voice is soft, gentle, hesitant, and it’s enough to bring Logan to his knees. He sinks to the ground, ducking his chin to his chest and just letting his shoulders shake in the weighted silence. “Logan, do you really think we’re a mistake?” He feels his whole body shudder when Virgil’s fingers graze under his chin. “Logan, look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Logan,  _ look at me.” _

“I  _ can’t.” _

Virgil doesn’t seem to hear this, or if he does, he doesn’t care, as he presses his knuckles softly against Logan’s adam’s apple. Logan chokes back a sob. “You think that us being together is a mistake?”

“I—I don’t—I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey, Logan, look.” Virgil waves his other hand in front of Logan’s face, the glint of the light catching on the ring around his finger. “Look at this, look, look here, you see?” He pulls the ring to the tip of his finger, not quite removing it all the way as he holds it before Logan’s eyes to show off the inscription. “‘I’ll bring you the moon.’ Remember when you promised me that?”

Logan hiccoughs. “I—yeah, yeah, I do. I do.”

“So you remember that you haven’t followed through on that yet.”

“I do.”

“So you know that this is just one little road block on a long trip that we’ve agreed to take together, and you know that I don’t think this is a mistake.”

“I don’t—”

“Logan.” Virgil’s voice is soft but clipped, pleading. “I need you to tell me that you know we aren’t a mistake.”

“I know we aren’t a mistake,” Logan tells the floor.

“Tell it to  _ me _ .”

“I know we aren’t a mistake,” Logan tells Virgil’s left ear.

“To  _ me, _ Logan. Please?”

“I—” Logan hesitates, his voice catching when he sees that glimmer in Virgil’s eyes. “I know we’re not—I know we aren’t a mistake.”

“Good.” Virgil’s voice sounds about as broken as Logan feels, and he slides off the couch to join Logan on the floor, wrapping him in a loose hug.

It’s not as extravagant as Roman’s, not as steadying as Patton’s, but it feels like home, and there on the floor in Virgil’s arms, Logan exhales.


	12. T minus 35 seconds

Logan bounces the baseball in one hand, riffling through the venue packet with the other. “Venue packet page seven?” He tosses the ball to Virgil, way too high.

Virgil lifts his arm and snaps it out of the air without looking, focused on his own stack of papers. “Too showy, not to mention that price. Even with your new position, that’d be a serious dent in our pockets. I like page three better, anyway.” He tosses the ball back.

Logan flips to page three, belatedly remembering he was supposed to catch the ball first. As he pulls it back toward his chair with his foot, he reads over the paper. “Decent price point, but it’s kind of far.”

“Everything is kind of far. We don’t exactly have a means of transportation outside of walking.”

“I’ll add it to the list.” Logan makes a note on his clipboard before turning to an impossibly large set of windows on his computer. “Do we even want to have it outside? It’s getting kind of cold.”

“Better a breeze than some stuffy church situation.”

Logan nods and adds that to the growing list of general concerns. “That forest one might look nice, especially if we do pictures by the changing colors.”

“Sold. I’m definitely an autumn.” Virgil raises his hand and waves his fingers, prompting Logan to pass the ball again. “Hey, can you turn off your do not disturb mode? I want to show you a video.”

“Because you’re obviously too far away to walk over here and show me,” Logan mumbles. He elects not to mention how he didn’t know his phone was on that mode to begin with. Almost instantly after tapping off the little moon symbol, an absurdly long list of notifications slams into his phone, all at once. Missed calls, missed texts, missed emails, messages on the snapchat (a phrase Virgil hates), and even new messages coming in dated as having been sent in just the last couple seconds. Logan realizes it might be prudent to turn off his ringer. He realizes it too late, but at least he realizes it, so maybe that can count for something. (It doesn’t, by the way.)

“Okay, I swear I only sent you the one video.”

“No, this isn’t all from you.” An expression somewhere between total confusion and total resignation crosses Logan’s face as he reads over the list of names. Alex, Cassidy, Roman, Joy, even Miss Katie-Lee and Mr. Jolenta. Not to mention all the snapchats and twitter messages from the former bunch. He pulls up the emails first.

“Huh. Apparently the crew doing the fumigation was checking out our vents and they found some trace asbestos in them.”

“Isn’t that only dangerous in, like, super high doses?”

“I’m getting to that. They kept looking—to see how bad it was, I guess—and they found some of the structural integrity of the building itself is in pretty bad shape.”

“Well, that is very not good.”

“For several reasons.” Logan switches over to the texts, all of which are pretty much the same information with less formal language. One or two ask why he isn’t answering, but far more than he would’ve anticipated ask what he’s doing with his newfound free time. “Why does everyone want to know what I’m doing with my time off?”

“What time off?”

“Oh, did I not read that one out loud?” Logan ducks as Virgil chucks the baseball at his head. “Watch it, I’m very breakable!”

“Not to mention frail. Just read to me about your time off.”

“Right, so the crew brought up this bad news, and Miss Katie-Lee decided it was cause enough to close the building down.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Sounds like she’s been looking into moving us anyway, find a better office. Some place over by the old Borders bookstore?”

“Right, that abandoned business park.” Virgil messes around on his phone for a minute and sucks a sharp breath through his teeth. “Oof. Solid twenty minute drive with no traffic. You can’t walk that far to work and back every day.”

“It’s not particularly ideal,” Logan agrees, now scrolling through the voicemail transcripts. More reminders about the relocation, the time off, people asking if they can have his first desk pick slot now that he won’t have a reason to work alongside the interns anymore, those same interns worrying about no longer being ‘The Fifth Floor Squad,’ and still more people asking about his free time plans. “Sounds like moving will take about two weeks.”

“Starting when?”

Logan checks the timestamp. “Yesterday. Wow, these people text fast. I’ve got, what, fifty unreads after a single day offline?”

“I mean, most people  _ do _ tend to be on their phones pretty much constantly. You’re the exception, not the norm.”

Logan looks back over all the people pestering him about his free time. At least he’s not the only one at a loss for activities when there’s no work to be done. “What if we got married next week?”

“I—what?”

“Us. Next week, when I don’t have any work schedule to interfere. We could do it. We could go get married.”

“We could go get married,” Virgil repeats slowly, clearly not comprehending the words coming out of his mouth. He says it again.

“Think about it,” Logan insists. “My parents are barely an hour’s drive away, I don’t really have anyone to invite outside of my work colleagues, we just need to correlate your side.”

Virgil blinks, and though he nods to himself, his brow furrows as though he still doesn’t quite get it. “My parents are both loaded, so they shouldn’t have any problem flying out for a day or two. I’m sure they could spot my siblings the travel budget.”

“Plus, it’s not like we have to go through all the venue and reception setup, right? Who says we have to?”

“I guess just us.”

“Exactly! Our parents make four, plus your siblings is nine, my colleagues top out around twenty, Patton and his daughter and maybe her mom to twenty-three—I really think we might swing it under forty people. Heck, we could just hold the reception at a restaurant, if they’re willing to accommodate that.”

“We could go get married,” Virgil whispers, but his eyes are much brighter now. The matter-of-factness from Logan, the reality that this is an actual thing they can actually go out and do, it’s all finally sinking in.

“We could go get married,” Logan says, and he doesn’t try to hide the growing smile on his face. Virgil bounds across the room and falls over Logan’s lap, wrapping him in a suffocating hug. For a long moment, they simply hold each other, until Virgil picks up Logan’s notepad.

“Well, future husband. Let’s get started, shall we?”


	13. T minus 32 seconds

Logan fidgets with his bow tie in the mirror, watching the light catch on the sparkling gold stitching. Against the deep purple of the fabric, the reflection of the shining yellow thread looks like jewels dancing along his jaw. He glances to the side, watching his dad walk over to fix it for him.

“You really need to wear more than your skinny long ties,” his dad mutters, pulling the bow taught. “Then you wouldn’t have such a hard time with this one.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Emile,” Logan’s doddo huffs. (Yes, Doddo, as in ‘dah-doh,’ because Logan had a  _ very _ obsessive dodo bird phase when he was younger and still learning to speak.) Logan meets his eyes in the mirror as his doddo tries to smile, and the way his near-black eyes crinkle up at the corners is almost enough to bring drops of water to Logan’s matching pair. “Let him have his day.”

“Yeah,  _ Dad _ ,” Logan adds, wrinkling his nose to make the title sound appropriately nasally. “Let me have my day.”

“I’ll let you have it when you  _ earn _ it,” his dad replies good-naturedly, pulling him into a side hug. From under his dad’s head, which rests on his own, Logan glances over their reflections, taking stock of a future he might well be heading for. Grey hair pulled back from a widow’s peak, just long enough to be pulled into a spurt of flyaways through a hair tie, resting on his shoulders with a weight even Atlas wouldn’t bear, but it does nothing to diminish those familiar laugh lines. Through everything in Logan’s life, those laugh lines have always been there, always reminded him of why it’s worth it to keep going. Those laugh lines are all Logan has ever aspired to become.

“Hey, hey! No crying on your special day!” his doddo says suddenly, waving his hands over his head. Logan brushes a finger over the damp skin beneath his eye and smiles.

“I can’t promise you anything of the sort.”

“Well, will you at least wait until you actually see the man you’re stuck with now before you go breaking down about it?”

“I’ll do my best.” Logan rests his fingers on the bow tie, watching it glitter against the tears in his dad’s eyes.

The walk to the altar is a blur, fraught with tripping over his own feet and trying to maneuver his doddo’s chair across the bumpy parts of the grass. Logan barely remembers to wrap his parents in the tightest hug he can manage before he breaks away to his spot at the ride side of the altar.

Roman tuts, tapping Logan’s shoulder to get him to turn around. Messing with his bow tie, he chides Logan, “I told you, no more hugs after the final touch-ups.”

“And  _ I _ told you to leave the sword at home.”

“It’s tradition for the groom to be able to defend his bride from any kidnappers, and you refusing to be prepared for that means I have to pick up the slack!”

“Roman. Sword  _ down. _ ”

Roman huffs before stashing the very real sword behind the stage, hiding it in the taller patches of grass crawling up the sides, but he gives Logan a pointed look as he does so.  _ Where did he even get a sword? _ “If someone tries to steal your bride, don’t come crying to me when you aren’t ready to fight.”

“Virgil isn’t my bride.”

“Not yet he’s not, and he certainly won’t be if you keep up that attitude.”

Logan rolls his eyes and pats his tie one last time before turning to the marriage officiant, who gives him a reassuring nod. “Everything is good to go, and he should be walking down that aisle any minute now.”

As Logan inhales and glances at the white carpet rolling across the grass and holds that deep breath, he feels goosebumps skitter all over his skin. Maybe it was a little too on-the-nose to pick an open field that’s framed with trees, but at least the leaves did him the dignity of decking themselves out in brilliant reds and oranges. A few shreds of yellow dance across the breeze and tickle the back of his neck. At least it’s right up against the side of a nice restaurant that was more than willing to put up their short-notice reservation. They even blocked out a decent chunk of the building for them to occupy after the dinner rush. A nice little place, really, one Logan’s fiance has sworn by since forever, and Logan kind of gets the feeling they aren’t often chosen for weddings and receptions, especially such impromptu ones as this.

Granted, they could’ve shot for earlier in the day, too, but it’s more than a little too late for regrets. Plus, hey, Logan kind of likes the soft pinks of the sunset framing their little stage, and he’s almost certain he’ll love how the colors will slice across Virgil’s sharp features. He feels something clap his shoulder, and turns to face Roman again.

“You’ve got this, buddy.” Roman grins, holding his gaze just a little longer than he needs to.

Logan nods and releases the shuddering breath he forgot he was holding, looking out over the audience. He’s never been particularly uncomfortable with crowds before—quite the contrary, in fact, as he’s the best presenter the fifth floor had to offer—but this feels different. This is a group of literally the most important people in their lives, gathered in one spot to watch literally the most important day of their lives.

Fine.

Logan is nervous.

He turns to his parents in the front row on his side, both of whom are flashing him giddy thumbs-ups and waves. He pretends not to notice the persistent tears still sparkling in his dad’s eyes.

He looks away, hoping the wells of emotion aren’t so blatantly reflected in his own face. If he’s breaking down this early, there’s no way he’ll make it through the rest of the ceremony, much less the reception.

Soft piano notes swell, creeping into the air and floating in circles around Logan’s head like so many flickering stars. Off to the side of the stage sits Joy, who nods at Logan as the melody picks up. Her fingers dance over the keys, keeping time with Logan’s erratic heartbeat. It was nothing short of a miracle that she agreed to provide the music for this part, but Logan can hardly even begin to think of all the ways he owes her as the doors to the restaurant swing open, revealing Virgil on his mother’s arm. His father stands in the front row on the audience’s left side, openly crying into his handkerchief. He knew he wouldn’t be composed enough to get Virgil down the aisle without collapsing, and Virgil’s mom was more than happy to oblige.

Virgil wears the perfect inverse of Logan’s outfit—a deep gold washing over his pale skin at sunset, accented with warm swaths of purple and bursts of pure white. The only unique thing in the color scheme is the tie looped around his neck, a pastel silver etched with lilac. With every achingly slow step Virgil takes, Logan feels his heart ricocheting around inside his body, bouncing off his ribcage and hammering into his knees and slamming against the top of his skull and trying to leak out through his eyes. It’s all Logan can do not to mirror his parents’ little emotion fest.

All too soon and nowhere near soon enough, Virgil arrives at Logan’s side. His mother nods and smiles at Logan, pressing Virgil’s hands into his before joining her husband on the left side, where she comforts the weeping man.

“Dad never was one for the stony silence kind of things,” Virgil says under his breath. Logan fights back a giggle.

“No, he really wasn’t.” Were it not for the officiant clearing his throat to get the ceremony underway, Logan might take the chance to reminisce on that one New Years’ Eve party, where Virgil’s dad circled the building delivering his sincerest emotional wisdom, bolstered by the liquid confidence infecting his veins. Virgil squeezes Logan’s hand once more before letting go, stepping back to make room for the officiant to stand between them.

“Great turnout for a week’s notice!” the officiant declares, expertly clapping his hands together. This earns a light chuckle from the admittedly small crowd. Good ice breaker. Now Logan just has to survive, y’know, the whole rest of the speech. Easier said than done.

“I’ve done many a ceremony in my time,” the officiant continues, “but few have surprised me so thoroughly as this one. I’ve seen couples elope on the spot, plan five years in advance, and pretty much everything else outside and in between. With all that in the tank, it might be hard to believe that never, in all my years, have I seen such a pair as Logan Marcus Walders and Virgil Sandovall.

“Their passion for each other truly surpasses that of all else—and older couples in the audience, please take no offense to my saying so.” Another light laugh. “In truth, you have all come here because, in some way or another, you know this, you understand this, and you believe in this—this being love.” Logan’s breath catches.

“Love is easily one of the most difficult, simple, painful, healing, awful, wonderful, insurmountably beautiful things on this earth. It brings together so many people with so many backgrounds, so many emotions, so many lives, and you pass that on to someone else, and you build each other up beyond what could ever be expected of you on your own.

“This simple ceremony, a few hours’ worth of speeches and declarations and toasts, is not enough to set you on the path down the life you intend to lead, nor is the license of some guy off Craigslist.” Even Logan allows himself to laugh this time. “I kid, of course. But in all sincerity, it is no secret that these two will not continue their lives together without some form of support from the community around them. They may have their love to fuel each other, but the people to whom they turn in times of hardship are some of the strongest people they will have the privilege of knowing. They cannot do this alone, and all of you present surely know the trials that await. Your support will be vital when they find their own strength faltering.” Logan doesn’t have to look to know both of his parents are well past trying to hold back their tears.

“We have reached the point where I ask the both of you to say your vows, and to give your love unto each other. Before that may happen, however, I ask that you think back upon your love—the love built on trust, care, acceptance, and knowing that true strength comes from supporting each other through your weaknesses. Look back on this love, and know that by making these vows, and by keeping these vows, your lives will be forever entwined, far more closely than any one person could ever say. Please now read your vows.”

Logan fights the rising lump in his throat, immediately wishing he’d brought some flashcards to quiet his nerves. He fumbles his hand around behind him, feeling for Roman’s solid grip. Roman grabs his fingers and squeezes them tightly, and Logan sniffles before barreling on with the speech he could probably do in his sleep. It might actually sound more confident if he were unconscious, rather than so solidly aware of every molecule of air separating him from Virgil.

“I, Logan, take you, Virgil, to be my husband, my companion and friend, my universe explorer, and my truest love. I will put all I have into lifting you up, into maintaining what we have, and into fighting the tests of time and change to ensure that our bond is never torn apart by anything we could face together. I—” He hesitates, knowing his bravado is going to crack and knowing there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I love you for—from the bottom of my hurt—heart, and my soul, and my soles, ha, and I—I’ll be by your side, in every sense of the where—word, for as long as I can stand on my own two feet, and—and even after that.” Logan hears his dad sniffle something fierce as he lowers his voice to a whisper, and maybe a tear or two of his own gets out, but he certainly wouldn’t admit to as much if anyone asked. “And no matter how long it takes, I will bring you the moon.” How Virgil has managed to keep his composure for this long is a mystery to Logan, who exhales shakily, his part done for the moment.

“And I, Virgil take you, Logan, to be my husband, my companion and friend, my universe explorer, and my truest love. I will do whatever it takes to remain with you, and I will put aside anything that might stand in the way of your being content, and I will ensure that we can together be at peace. I will stand to see that you never want for anything, and I promise you that I will always be at your side, for as long as you’ll have me.” Virgil drops his own voice, and it would be a crime for Logan to deny the smile weaseling its way onto his face. “And however long it takes, it will still cost you the stars.”

The officiant nods to Virgil’s youngest sibling—a slight girl of almost nine years, her light brown hair done up in a braided nest and crowned with flowers. “May I have the rings, please?” She rises carefully and stares at her feet as she holds the plush velvet pillow straight out in front of herself, poking her tongue out in obvious concentration to not trip on the way up to the stage.

When she reaches the officiant and thrusts the pillow at him, Virgil elbows her in the shoulder. “Not bad, dork.” She pulls a goofy face at him before retreating to her spot in the front row, where her mom pats her back lightly and smiles.

The officiant continues his spiel, looking first to Logan. “Do you, Logan Marcus Walders, take Virgil Sandovall to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forth? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor, in joy and in sorrow, in love and matrimony, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” Logan slips the band onto Virgil’s finger, watching the soft pink light of the sunset catch that familiar promise engraved along the inside. He’s pretty sure he would collapse right about now, were it not for Roman and Virgil on either side to hold him up. Logan is very close to spontaneously imploding. The glittering bow around his neck is the only thing keeping his insides in, to be completely frank.

“And do you, Virgil Sandovall, take Logan Marcus Walders to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forth? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor, in joy and in sorrow, in love and matrimony, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” Tears are pouring freely down Logan’s face now as he watches Virgil slip the wedding band onto his finger, inlaid with that same response. All the stars in the sky couldn’t outshine the swelling of Logan’s heart.

“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and husband. You may now kiss the groom!”

Logan almost melts then and there into Virgil’s arms as the latter pulls him into a fierce hug, burying his nose in the puffy material along Logan’s shoulder. Logan takes a steadying breath before leaning back just enough to get a good look at Virgil’s face. At least Logan isn’t the only one crying on stage anymore.

Logan presses his lips to Virgil’s, exhaling softly when he feels Virgil’s hand come to rest on the back of his head. He distantly hears the crowd cheering, distantly hears the officiant take a few respectful steps back, distantly hears Roman clapping louder than anyone else, distantly hears Patton putting his daughter’s hands together for her, distantly hears his whole world clicking deftly into place.

“How’s that for a wedding put together in just a week?” Virgil mumbles, pulling away just enough to whisper the question.

Logan rolls his eyes and laughs, tugging Virgil into another hug and squeezing his back tight enough to feel the ring pressing an indent of words along his finger. “Think we’ve got a reception to get to,” he informs Virgil’s jacket. Virgil laughs, the sound reverberating through Logan’s chest before they finally separate completely, both beaming brighter than the sunset behind them.

Something Logan can only describe as a blurry whirlwind passes as different people shuffle around them, propelling him through the doors of the restaurant and into the dining area set aside for them. The room is blissfully silent, the only sounds coming from him and Virgil leaning on each other as they walk. Everyone else waits respectfully outside, presumably holding back until the head waiter cues for them to come in.

“Bit more showy than we usually go for, no?” Virgil’s voice dances through Logan’s head like a haze of warmth.

Logan laughs and settles on his side as they take their seats, sighing softly. “I liked it.” He holds up his hand, admiring the gleam of silver and gold. “Think this is my favorite part, though.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” Virgil holds his own hand up beside Logan’s, tilting his head to rest it against the top of Logan’s hair. “You ready for even more attention?”

“No, but send them in anyway.” Virgil signals to the waiters beside the doors, who pull them open to allow the sea of guests to flood inside. Logan acknowledges the words of praise and congratulations with small smiles, trying to tamp down the flurry of emotions rising in his chest. Once everyone is seated, the waiters swerve between the chairs to hand out glasses of champagne, as well as sparkling cider to the kids and the adults that ask for it.

“Know what this is?” Virgil mumbles into Logan’s ear.

“Probably not,” Logan replies, watching Virgil’s dad pick up a knife in one hand and his champagne flute in the other.

“The  _ fun _ part. We just have to sit here and smile.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Virgil’s dad clinks his glass lightly, waiting for the buzzing crowd to quiet down. Logan barely hears a word out of his mouth, too focused on the weight of Virgil’s arm draped over his shoulders. He must finish at some point, because he sits down as one of Virgil’s sisters rises to clink her own glass. Logan loses track of the order after that, all of his attention squarely on not crying again. That is, until Roman stands up. Then Logan is too terrified to look away.

“Logan Wald—er, Logan Sandov—um.” Roman hesitates, waiting for a cue on which surname to go with.

“I guess we never officially announced that, huh?” Logan mumbles to Virgil. “We still going with option two?”

“I like option two,” Virgil replies.

Logan turns back to Roman. “Combined name. Sandovall and Walders. Sanders.”

“Right. So as I’m sure most of you are aware, I’ve known Logan Sanders for quite a few years now—no newbie could deal with that kind of last minute name change out of nowhere, at least not as well as I did.” This earns a hearty laugh, though that might be due in considerable part to the light buzz from the champagne.

“He’s never made a whole lot of sense to me, nor did he ever promise to. First day I met him, I knew nothing would ever be quite normal with him around. I’ve never met anyone else so ridiculously devoted to every aspect of their life and work, much less to all the smaller calculations and details that bore me to tears. That said, Logan has never been so single-mindedly dedicated to anything as he is to Virgil.

“They’re unbelievably close, more so than Logan ever was with riddles that earned brownie points with his boss, and the day Logan brought up his first date with Virgil was a day I’ll never forget—mostly because he also picked that day to tell me about the second date. And the third, and the fourth, and the several months that went by before he decided to tell us they’d even officially  _ met _ .” Roman fixes Logan with a pointed stare, prompting him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s what we in the ’biz call ‘not passing on crucial information,’ a term with which Mr. Sanders here is very familiar.”

Roman raises his glass with a grin, and Logan is pretty sure the look on his face was just ripped wholesale from the iconic image of the titular character in  _ The Great Gatsby. _ “To the Sanders!”

The cry echoes in a cheerful chorus around the room, everyone toasting with their flutes before dissolving into warm laughter and upbeat conversations.

“To the Sanders,” Logan mumbles, pressing deeper against Virgil’s side.

“To the Sanders,” Virgil agrees.


	14. T minus 28 seconds

“Blue shell incoming,” Logan says flatly, watching the pixels fly toward Virgil’s kart.

“What the—hey, jerkwad!” Virgil shoves his shoulder into Logan’s side, knocking him up against the arm of the couch. It creaks loudly under his weight.

“I gave you more than enough warning,” Logan replies. He keeps his eyes on the screen, too tense with concentration to throw the game just yet.

“Yeah,  _ after _ you threw the shell.”

“What’s your point?” Logan relaxes his shoulders as tinny trumpets blare from the speakers, his kart switching to a slower pace for its automatic victory lap.

“ _ That’s _ my point.” Virgil scowls as he watches his own kart toe past the finish line, his body still at a slant from knocking over Logan.

“You do realize there’s still two more rounds, yes?”

“Right, because it’s not over until I kick you into last place with negative two points.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Your face isn’t possible.” Virgil shifts in his seat, and Logan half thinks he’s going to pull him back up to vertical, but no, Virgil just pushes him harder against the couch arm as the next lap queues up on screen. Logan grumbles and sits up on his own, pressing into Virgil’s side as the countdown begins.

In the same moment that he holds down the gas button for the starting boost, he feels Virgil’s muscles shift to do the same. Around the first lap, they’re in a dead heat, barely acknowledging the computer players volleying for a distant third.

Coming up on the second lap, Logan shifts his torso in time with his kart, throwing his weight around as if that will make his character’s turns sharper (and it absolutely works). Virgil counteracts the impact with his own body, ramming into Logan’s side as his character on-screen does the same.

“Is that really how you want to play this?” Logan laughs and raises his controller to eye level, sticking out his elbows to block Virgil’s view of the screen.

“Hey!” Virgil ducks his head under Logan’s arms, bobbing around to see the screen despite Logan’s best efforts to the contrary. “That’s cheating!”

“Says who?”

_ “Blue shell!” _

“You _son of a_—” Logan doesn’t finish his exclamation as the round finishes, placing Virgil in first with two wins and Logan in second with one. He stews in silence as the next course loads up, wondering whether he should carry out the ridiculous idea ruminating in his head. He decides at the last second that, yes, he definitely should and will do his silly idea.

“Blargh!” he yells at the top of his lungs as the next countdown begins, startling Virgil into hitting the gas button too early.

Virgil rattles off a few curses as his character waves off the cloud of smoke, placing him solidly in seventh place. “That was a dirty trick and you know it!”

“Do I?” Logan grins as he tosses a green shell behind himself, watching the titular character collide with it and spin out of control. “What makes you think that?”

“I am going to personally knock you over the edge of rainbow road.”

“I’d love to see you prove it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Only if you take it as one.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”

“Will we?” Logan smiles maniacally, shoving harder into Virgil’s side before leaning back and slamming into him again with every turn he makes on the last lap. He doesn’t hold back as the ends draws closer, nearly knocking Virgil off the couch.

Well, not ‘nearly.’

He literally shoves Virgil off the couch just as he’s about to swing the last turn of the final lap. Virgil overreacts as much as possible, rolling like it causes excruciating pain to touch any inch of his skin to the floor. Logan recovers quickly from the surprise at his own strength, determined to keep his kart on the path to the finish line. Just as he’s about to cross, Virgil lunges for the game console and, more specifically, for its power button.

“Hey!”

In a split second, with Logan’s kart mere pixels from crossing the checkerboard strip on the track, the screen flashes white and clicks to black. “That was uncalled for!”

“Hardly, you started it!”

“Even if I won, we would’ve tied for first! It’s not like I would’ve beaten you!”

“Too bad we have no way of knowing that for sure, since our game tragically crashed with no explanation.”

Logan sticks out his tongue at Virgil and drops his controller on the couch, then turns to head into the kitchenette. Just in time, too, as the kettle for Virgil’s coffee dings to completion.

“Get me my coffee?”

“Oh, abso _ lute _ ly,” Logan replies in a voice dripping with entirely too much sickening sweetness. Virgil squints sidelong at him. “What ever could that face be for, my dearest, darlingest lovely heart? Why wouldn’t I get my precious treasure his coffee?”

“Your tone is weirding me out. Are you sure you’re good to get me my coffee?”

Logan nods primly, filling up Virgil’s usual mug to the brim and turning around to hand it to him. “Here ya go!” Unceremonious as can be, he turns the cup over and dumps the contents on the floor, sipping calmly at his own tea as he watches Virgil’s bewildered face fall. Some of the coffee splashes back and scalds his bare feet, but it’s worth it for that expression.

“You dumped out my drink!”

“Too bad we have no way of knowing that for sure, since your coffee tragically disappeared with no explanation.” The look on Virgil’s face now is too delicious for words. Logan sips at his mug again.


	15. T minus 26 seconds

Logan rubs at a sore spot on the back of his neck and wonders whether the rest of the day will continue in the same manner as the morning promised it could. Virgil, grumbling and annoyed, stumbled out of bed about thirty minutes after they were already meant to be on their way to the dealership. This in itself would be bad enough, but was only worsened when their Uber kept pushing back their arrival time every ten minutes. By the time they finally reached the apartment (and Virgil was finally ready to go), they were well on their way to being ten minutes late to the appointment, and that’s an optimistic view. The reality of the situation dropped them off out front about twenty minutes after the fact. So no, to answer your question, Logan is not having a good day.

He furrows his brow at the droves of new car smell hammering at his senses, wishing he could be like everyone else who actually enjoys the atrocious smell for some godforsaken reason. By an extended arm, he tugs along a very reluctant Virgil, forcing him to move past the shiny displays of brand new cars that they definitely won’t be able to afford.

“We  _ have _ to make this meeting, love,” Logan is saying. “It’s crucial to follow through on any appointment you make, especially one so important as this, with someone who actually knows what they’re talking about and has the potentially to hold major sway over a significant life decision.”

“And why couldn’t we just do this online at home, where we don’t have to deal with actual people?”

“Because hearing what they can offer in person gives them a sense of physical closeness to the consumer that might tip their offers in our favor, and it will give  _ us _ a better idea of the type of company we’re working with. Now hurry up. We’re already late, and I don’t want to make a bad first impression worse.” Virgil hems and haws, but he does eventually follow Logan into the pristine white building. Every surface sparkles—no, seriously, every single surface, from the floor to the windows to the ceiling to the glasses around the neck of the lady that strides over to greet them.

“Hey, are you two Mr. and Mr. Sanders?”

“We are,” Logan says. “Can I assume you’re Ms. Poyani?”

“Yep! You can just call me Kathy, though. Pleasure to meet you!”

“I’m so sorry about how late we’re running today,” Logan apologizes, but she waves it off.

“I’ll hear nothing of the sort! Sometimes life just gets in the way, and you needn’t apologize for that.” She clasps her hands together and smiles brightly, turning on her heel. “If you’ll follow me, my desk is right this way. Give me just a moment to tidy it up and pull over another chair, and we can go ahead and get started!” Logan pulls Virgil along to the cluttered cubicle, the walls of which are swarming with pictures of a couple of toddlers—presumably Kathy’s son and daughter.

Kathy takes a seat at the far side of her desk and clicks around on her computer for a minute before turning to face Logan, then Virgil. “Okay, so we’re looking at y’all’s first car, right?”

“Yes,” Logan answers, hoping his practiced eagerness will distract her from the sheer attitude radiating from Virgil. “My workplace moved locations recently, and we’re just looking for an inexpensive vehicle to get me to and from work. Nothing fancy or added on or anything, just your most basic skeleton.”

“We can absolutely work with that!” Kathy pulls a sheet of paper off the mess of folders and binders on her desk—organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless—and points out a few highlighted bullet points with a manicured fingernail. “Based on your preliminary appointment information, I really like this model for you. It’s a little on the larger side, but—”

“We don’t need a big car,” Virgil interjects. “It’s just the two of us, no kids, no carpool, no nothing, so smaller is better.”

“But we’re still open to hearing your pitch,” Logan adds hurriedly, giving Virgil a pointed look.

Kathy blinks, opens her mouth, hesitates, then continues. “Okay, and I thought this one here would be your best bet for your needs while cutting down on gas consumption, so you’ll save money there in the long—”

“If we cared about gas consumption, we’d be looking at mopeds and motorcycles.”

“We are not getting a motorcycle, Virgil.”

Virgil pouts and crosses his arms, sinking lower in his chair as his eyes drift to the pictures on the wall. Kathy surges forward with her pitch, apparently undeterred, and Logan has to wonder how often she deals with people like them. “I tend to suggest new clients start with a two year lease, so you can get a feel for our company and vehicles without being roped in by a long term purchase. Of course, if, at the end of your two years, you like your lease enough to take out a new one, or even purchase the vehicle you’ve been driving, we can always—”

“That’s assuming we don’t change our minds about this company being worth it, too,” Virgil mutters. “Maybe we end up wanting a better place with better deals.”

“Yes, well—”

“Could you excuse us for just a minute, please?” Logan asks weakly. Kathy gives him an understanding nod and scoots out of the cubicle, presumably heading over to greet some people near the entrance. Logan turns to a sullen Virgil. “What is your  _ deal?” _

_ “My _ deal?” Virgil’s voice is nothing short of aghast as he sits up and points at the papers fanned out on the desk. “This is easily one of the biggest purchases we’re probably ever going to make, something that will literally transport  _ you _ to and from your  _ livelihood, _ and you’re just smiling and nodding along with everything she says!”

“She’s hardly had a chance to say anything at all, what with you interrupting so much! At the very least, you could listen to her pitch before you go and shut it down!”

“I already told you what I want, and you shot that down pretty quick, don’t you think?”

“That’s because you wanted a motorcycle, and the only supporting evidence you had for why we should get one was that you ‘really really want one.’ Desire is not a basis for major life decisions.”

“It’s not like you put up any evidence  _ against _ why we should get one, either.”

“Fine, you want evidence for why I’m not spending our hard-earned money on a motorcycle? How about how they expose nearly all of your person to elements of weather and pollution, as opposed to the trace amounts that get past cracked car windows? Or how they’re more dangerous to operate on busy roads, where most motorists won’t even be able to  _ see _ you, much less stop in time to avoid a collision? Maybe the little fact that a motorcyclist is thirty-seven times more likely to die in a crash than someone in an enclosed car, and nine times more likely to get injured?”

“Oh, right, like you just pulled those numbers out of nowhere? You didn’t think to share that information when we were at home, where there wasn’t some car dealership full of people hovering nearby to hear how much you want to ignore my opinion?”

“I never ignored your opinion! I took it into heavy and sincere consideration, looked at the facts and statistics, and decided I cared more about our lives than I do some silly dispute about what kind of car we should get, much less an unsafe motorcycle!”

“Is every argument we have now just a silly dispute to you?” Virgil’s voice is tinted with that achingly familiar venom, and it takes all of Logan’s willpower not to let the same toxins seep into his own words.

“Not if you would just keep a level head for once, rather than blowing up every time you hear a perspective that clashes with your own.”

“Name on time I’ve done that before.”

“Try when I last confronted you about your career choice—of which I have been  _ nothing _ but supportive since, mind you—and you ran out of the house!”

Virgil gets real quiet, real quick. “That’s not fair.”

Logan forces some amount of poise and rationality into his tone, wondering just how much more calmness he can fit in there before he completely explodes. “It is a discussion we need to have, at some point or another, if only to reconcile our differences regarding the situation. Especially when the combined salaries we bring home might not support all the things we both want to achieve in life.”

“Things like what?” Virgil’s voice is soft, tentative, as he still looks off to the side, still refuses to meet Logan’s eyes.

“Well, things like a motorcycle, for one, I guess.” Logan looks at the papers Kathy left behind, scanning over the highlighted bits. “You’d need to get another license specifically for operating a motorcycle, not to mention the price point for all the necessary safety gear that you absolutely will not be leaving the apartment without, and we can’t forget the ticket on the bike itself. I don’t even want to  _ think _ about how messy the insurance probably is, either.”

“You say all that like you’re actually considering it.”

“Wildly enough, I suppose I could be.” The unbridled hope in Virgil’s face as he turns to Logan is almost more than he can bear. “It’s not our top priority, and I certainly want to first get an actual  _ car, _ but I’ll admit that I’ve never been one for clunky soccer mom vans. I don’t dislike the simplicity of bicycles and mopeds, but with that simplicity comes a sort of functionality that is just too irreconcilable with my lifestyle. It all really does come down to price, but if we can bend the budget right, maybe we can find a way to do both when we’re at a place where our finances will support it.”

Logan takes Virgil’s hands into his own, running his thumb over the wedding band. “I want us to work this out together, but these are the kinds of real world problems that, realistically, we’re always going to have to face, and keep on facing. From here on out, we’re in this together. We’re a team, and we need to face the world and  _ believe _ that, not just as an empty platitude, but as a real, true,  _ genuine _ partnership that strengthens us when we work together.”

“You’re getting pretty deep for an argument about some crappy little hypothetical bike,” Virgil says with a forced laugh.

“Because when we get to the  _ major _ issues, the ones far more important than some crappy little hypothetical bike, I want us to both be ready for them.” Logan squeezes Virgil’s hands and inhales, wrinkling his nose at the ever-present new car smell still lingering between them. It’s almost like they soaked the building in bleach to give it that finished polish. “I’ll meet you in the middle here, but halfway is a far cry from me coming to you. You need to give a little, because you can’t just keep getting everything you want all the time. You need to be willing to make sacrifices if you want to make this work, and I’ll be the first to do the same.”

Virgil bites his lip, his eyes wobbling dangerously as they rise to meet Logan’s. They sit in silence for a long, long moment before he speaks up. “I’ll meet you in the middle.”

“Good. I’ll go get Kathy, and maybe we can discuss that crappy little hypothetical bike of yours.”


	16. T minus 23 seconds

With only two days left to go before the new office is finally open and he can at last return to work, Logan is bored out of his mind. He tilts his head up from his position on the floor with his feet up on the wall and looks at Virgil, who shrugs.

“Just because I know art history doesn’t mean I know anything about whatever modern scene you’re trying to peddle. How should I know what you want to do for fun?”

“We’ve got a functional car now, right? We might as well use it.”

“To do what? The only places we go outside of work are, like, the park. And Patton’s house, I guess, but I don’t know why you’d use your car to go hassle him.”

“We could just get in the car and drive, see where we end up?”

“As if there isn’t literally an endless list of places we could go or random directions we could take.”

“Not like we have any better options. Not like you’re suggesting any, for that matter.”

“You have absolutely got me there, my dude.”

Logan takes this as the most solid of agreements he could hope for and pushes his foot off the wall, doing half of a backwards somersault to get to his knees. Virgil, in a much less graceful manner (despite whatever dance experience Logan is convinced he’s hiding from him), tumbles off the couch and lands in a heap on the floor. He luckily seems to find his footing by the time Logan pockets the keys and insurance papers, doing a spectacular job of not tripping on his way down the stairs.

Logan clicks the lock button on the fob, reassuring himself it still works despite having just gotten it, y’know, yesterday. As he presses the unlock button on the handle, Virgil yanks on the passenger door at exactly the right moment to re-lock his door. Logan sighs and presses it again before sliding into his seat.

For a used lease, it isn’t in the worst possible shape. A few tears in the leather of the seat, some bleach stains, some scuff marks, but certainly good enough that it won’t crap out on them in the middle of a busy highway. At the very least, Kathy’s deal regarding further interests in a motorcycle was more than fair. Logan is pretty sure this car will survive the next couple years in one piece, anyway, so it’s hardly worth worrying about.

Virgil does not agree with this sentiment.

“What if that spot didn’t show up in the trust papers and they charge you for it when you turn it in?”

“Then we’ll be out thirty bucks and the next lessee will enjoy a cleaner car.”

“What if you lock the keys in the car and your phone dies and your late for work?”

“Then I politely ask the nearest shop if I could borrow their phone for roadside assistance.”

“What if you forget the number?”

“Google.”

“What if—”

“Virgil.”

“What?”

Logan sweeps a hand around to indicate the parking lot, from which they still haven’t moved an inch. “If any of that happens, we will deal with it when it comes.” He holds up his phone and swipes away the dormant background apps. “Full battery.” He scratches at a stain on the console with his fingernail, picking it off with ease. “We can always clean it ourselves.” He takes Virgil’s hand in his own, feeling the bands between them. “And if nothing else, we’ve got each other.”

Virgil nods, clearly still unconvinced, but reaches for the aux cord and plugs in his phone. “Dibs on music hijackery.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how dibs work,” Logan says, but he doesn’t protest when Alec Benjamin’s voice pours from the speakers. As they approach a traffic light, Logan assigns each direction a number—left one, right two, straight three. “Pick a number, one through nine.”

“Seven.” Logan clicks on his indicator and pulls into the left turn lane. Once the next light pops up—two directions with a one way street cutting through the middle—Logan reassigns the numbers, one through ten, with going straight being designated as odd numbers.

“Pick a number, one through ten.”

“Four.”

Logan turns, quirking one eyebrow as Virgil rapid-fire skips through a solid fifteen songs in a row, only allowed a discordant opening beat to play each time.

“One through three,” Virgil grumbles.

“Now that’s no fun,” Logan chides lightly. “Where’s the variety, the panache? And three. One through ten.”

“Eight.” Logan sees the word on his lips more than he hears it, turning right as some song about tongues by a horizon band starts blaring from the speakers. The short stints of number selections continue for a good twenty minutes or so, with only the vaguest occasional commentary from Logan, before Virgil speaks up again.

“I’m getting close to the end of my repertoire.” Mind you, he’s played a maximum of seven songs to completion by this point.

“You’ve hardly played anything yet. How many songs do you have?”

“Five hundred forty-two.”

“And you only wanted to listen to seven.”

“Correct.”

“So why not delete the other five thirty-five?”

“’Cause I’m not in the mood to listen to them  _ now _ , but I might be later.”

“Fair enough. One through nine.”

“Five.”

Logan drives straight, eyeing the strip mall fast approaching on the right. “How about we go to Ikea?”

“Why would we go to Ikea?”

“Could be fun, wandering around and getting lost in the aisles and all that manner of doing. Plus, hey, we could always get some furniture.”

“Right, because the apartment isn’t crowded enough already. Surely more things will fit in the same space.” Logan considers this and shrugs, but nevertheless he flicks on his right turn indicator and pulls into the parking lot. And a spot not too far from the doors. Nice.

Virgil smacks the back of his hand into Logan’s chest when he moves to cut the engine. “Wait, there’s only twenty-five seconds left in this song.” So they sit and they wait for the song to play itself out, Virgil bouncing along and Logan watching how the longer pieces of his dyed hair claw past his undercut to the nape of his neck. “Okay,  _ now _ we can go.” Virgil climbs out of the car first, already bounding for the entrance by the time Logan locks the doors behind them.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Logan remarks, scrubbing at a smudge on his glasses with his shirt. He squints at Virgil’s blurry silhouette, which is nearly to the undefined entrance already. “Since when did furniture shopping excite you?”

“Since I remembered that Ikea has, like, the  _ best _ cinnamon rolls.”

“I never agreed to making any purchases today.”

“You never agreed to making any  _ furniture _ purchases today. You never said cinnamon rolls were off the table, so hurry up.”

This is how Logan finds himself sandwiched between a family of five in front of him and an elderly lady behind him. Virgil, the little snot, lingers at the edge of the line, nowhere near as cramped as Logan. More than a little squished as he does so, Logan leans over to Virgil and mumbles, “I am not getting you the six pack.”

Virgil hardly seems to hear him, pawing through his wallet (Logan’s wallet, that is) for some bills on the west side of crumpled. “Yeah, sure, cool deal my dude.”

Singular cinnamon roll in hand, Virgil follows Logan from the counter some ten minutes later, the latter being extra careful not to touch the parts of his husband’s hand that are drenched in sugar.

“Skhur khoo gon’t wah skhung?” Virgil asks—well, that’s what it sounds like he asks, but Logan likes to think himself pretty darn decent at reading context clues. That is, the context clues of Virgil’s full mouth and the way he’s prodding the roll in Logan’s direction.

“I’m good,” Logan says, holding up his hands as if to calm a rabid child. Virgil shrugs and tears off another piece, smearing icing across his chin in the process, and Logan wonders whether he should feel enamoured or disgusted. Maybe a little bit of both.

By the time they reach what Virgil referred to as ‘guh koch uk guh gnazje’—’the top of the maze,’ as Logan managed to parcel out—the roll is completely gone and Virgil is licking his fingers clean, pulling them from his lips with a  _ pop _ .

“You are incorrigible,” Logan informs Virgil, watching him wipe his fingers off on the hem of his shirt.

“Not like anyone else’ll notice.” Virgil zips up his jacket and holds his arms out to the sides, as if to say  _ tada _ to a nonexistent audience. “See? Good as gone.”

“I suppose.” Logan glances at the arrows underfoot, tracing their path up to a map standee. “Let’s try to figure out where we want to go before we get completely lost.”

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Virgil grumbles. He pokes at an area on the map. “If we’re gonna do it the cheater’s way, I want to hit up the office and study displays.”

Logan nods, dragging a finger along the picture and tapping the  _ you are here _ dot. “Okay, that shouldn’t be too impossible. We just need to go through bedding here, past the living room section there, and we can bypass the kitchen part with this shortcut here.”

“Works for me,” Virgil says, already a good fifteen feet away. Logan exhales and moves quickly to catch up, following Virgil down the winding path and wondering how long it’ll take them to get completely lost.

“Hey, wait, hold up,” Virgil says suddenly, stopping sharply enough that Logan has to feint right to avoid smacking his face between Virgil’s shoulder blades.

“What is it?” Virgil tilts his head toward a display room in the bedding section, with several blankets and a surplus of pillows and some glow in the dark stars on the wall and a bedside table and—“Why did you stop me for this?”

“’Cause that could be us.” Virgil’s voice takes on a strange quality, sort of airy and wistful, a combination that completely baffles Logan.

“I don’t think I quite follow you.”

“See how normal it is? It’s literally just a bed with some decorations but, like, that’s how some people’s homes actually  _ are. _ That’s the kind of thing that we could make our normal.”

“I don’t think I quite understand what you’re trying to get across here.”

Virgil gives an exasperated sigh, glances about them, and launches himself at the bed. Logan freezes, his hands caught somewhere between wringing themselves out and trying to stop him. Posing atop the bed, Virgil peeks out at Logan from between his elbows and squints his eyes so they almost look sleepy—more squinty than sleepy, but Logan gets the point well enough.

“This is an actual, genuine, legitimate  _ thing _ that we could have, and it could just—just  _ be. _ ”

“I don’t think—”

“Then stop thinking.” Virgil props himself up on his elbows and stares at Logan, more than long enough to make him uncomfortable. (This admittedly doesn’t take very long, but still.) “There’s no, like, grand point I’m trying to make here. I’m just saying that this display is something that some people actually have, and it’s manufactured, yeah, it’s whatever, but it’s still something that exists, and something we could have, something that—it could—I don’t know, I think I lost my point somewhere in there. I can’t really put it into words, but d’you know what I mean? Don’t answer that.” His face taking on a stunning shade of crimson, Virgil slides off the bed and speedwalks to the next department.

“Well, hey, hang on,” Logan calls, jogging to catch up. When he does (by no small amount of effort), he has to hold Virgil’s shoulder in place to keep him from getting away again. “Just because I don’t get it doesn’t mean it’s invalid.”

“Doesn’t mean it  _ is _ valid, either.” Virgil is staring intently at the ground, as if it might get up and run away when he’s not looking.

“Okay, so then let me try.”

“Try what?”

Rather than answer, Logan steps off the arrow-lined path and stands beside an elbow couch covered in decorative pillows. “This could be us, too, right? A normal, everyday thing that doesn’t mean much to anyone else, but it could be a sort of symbol of the life we choose to forge together? Was that what you meant about the bedding display?”

“Kind of, but not really, but you tried your best.” Virgil stifles a laugh as Logan perches on the arm of the couch and rests his chin on his fist. “What are you doing, dork?”

“I’m thinking…” Logan mumbles, drawing out the second syllable. “I’m thinking… I’m thinking…”

“You are so weird.” Virgil shifts his weight between his feet for a moment, then bolts down the path, easily escaping Logan’s sight as the latter scrambles to get off the couch arm without tripping over himself. Logan weaves between the scattered clumps of people doing, you know,  _ real serious shopping, _ doing his best not to full out sprint in his efforts to catch up with Virgil’s silhouette as it disappears around the next corner every time he gets it back in his sights.

“Stop doing that!” Logan groans once he finally reaches Virgil, who appears entranced by the fancier displays of kitchenware. “We were supposed to take a shortcut back there.”

“Yeah, but maybe I wanted to look at utensils and stuff.” Virgil spins around and holds up a wooden block shaped like a porcupine, its spines consisting of all manner of forks and spoons and knives. “Look at this one! Her name is Polly.”

Logan cranes his neck to look for a tag declaring as much, electing not to suggest that a better name might be ‘Caesar.’ “Where does it say that?”

“In my heart.” Virgil places the porcupine back on the shelf and continues down the aisle, now checking out a nesting set of measuring cups.

“We don’t need kitchenware stuff, you know.” Logan is confident that his words are falling on dear ears, but he continues his lecture anyway. “We rarely cook anything so complex as to require new tools. We don’t even use the ones we already have.”

“What’s your point?” The question seems too halfhearted to be anything more than vague encouragement for Logan to keep talking as Virgil pokes his nose into a standing hutch display. “Hey, look how nice this wood is! Even better than the frames at the museum. D’you think they’d give me a raise if I went in and criticized their choice of woodwork for displaying the art?”

“Probably not, since you don’t have a legal salary in the first place.” Logan picks up a set of cups, lifting them over his head to inspect the undersides by the fluorescent beam lights.

“Fair enough.” With no further warning, Virgil backs up from the hutch and darts down the path into the next section. Logan sighs, not bothering to call out another ‘stop doing that’ before setting down the cups and chasing after him, narrowly dodging two women leaning their heads together to admire a kitchen display.


	17. T minus 21 seconds

Logan blinks back against the bright sun filtering through the blinds, the persistent yellow filling the room with a ballet of floating dust motes. His eyes squint shut of their own accord as his arm—the one not tingling with a lack of circulation under the weight of his body—fumbles around in the mess of blankets behind him. Where he would normally feel Virgil’s reassuring presence, he finds only more blankets, not even warm to the touch. He grumbles softly under his breath, still not really awake, and grabs at Virgil’s pillow, drawing it in close to his chest. His sleep-addled brain coaxes him back to sleep, barely cognitive enough to pull the covers over his head to block out the sun. The pillow grows warm against his chest.

When the sun beating against his blanket cave becomes too hot to ignore, he groans and begrudgingly gets out of bed, unaccustomed to sleeping in this late, much less being this tired. Out into the main area of the apartment where the living area and the kitchenette meet, he follows the worsening scent of something burning. Like, burning  _ badly. _

“What’re you doing?”

Virgil jumps at the sound of Logan’s voice—admittedly still pretty low and gravelly, given how late Logan slept in—and whirls around, throwing his arms to the side as if that would hide the smoke curling up from the stove. Logan also notes, with more than a little interest, that Virgil isn’t wearing a shirt—he’s literally just standing over a smoking stove in his boxers. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

Virgil sheepishly holds up what may or may not be the shirt he is no longer wearing, now a ball of cloth covered in stains and burn marks and—“Is that syrup?”

“It’s your last real day off before the new place, I dunno, I wanted to try to make you breakfast in bed. Didn’t work out exactly like I wanted, but it still seems edible. Objectively.”

“Oddly enough,” Logan says as he wanders over to Virgil, “I don’t believe you.” He wraps his arms around Virgil’s torso as the latter turns back to the stove, fanning away the wisps of smoke. Logan rests his chin on Virgil’s shoulder and watches him try to salvage the crispy pieces of what might be pancakes—or maybe just very, very badly burned scraps of literal wood.

“Look, I did my best, okay?” Virgil says defensively. “You haven’t taught me  _ that _ many recipes yet.” Logan exhales softly through his nose, holding back from a full-on laugh as Virgil lets out a surprised yelp when some of the scorched food slides toward the edge of the pan.

“I believe you,” Logan mumbles, holding Virgil tighter. He can feel Virgil’s spine digging into his chest, only the soft fabric of Logan’s shirt keeping them apart. “Maybe next time, though, you try looking up a recipe yourself like a big kid?”

“That’s cheating.” Virgil switches off the stove and spears one of the, uh,  _ dough shards _ on a fork, holding it up to his shoulder. Logan takes a hesitant bite and doesn’t bother trying to hide the look of pure, unbridled disgust on his face. Actually, he doesn’t know if it would be physically possible to hold back that expression. Virgil pouts, then inspects the shard for himself. “Come on, it’s not that—” He takes a bite. Silently, he sets down the fork and lets his mouth fall open, the shard clattering to the floor. No, really, it actually makes a clattering sound. “Okay, so it  _ is _ that.”

“Toaster waffles?” Logan tries. There is absolutely no way he could survive even  _ trying _ to eat another shard.

“Toaster waffles.” Virgil plugs in the toaster and shuffles over to the freezer, his movements considerably impaired by Logan’s refusal to let go.

So for their last full day together, at least before Logan’s career gets in the way again, they sit in a comfortable silence and enjoy a hearty breakfast of freezer burned waffles as the sun rises on a warm day brimming with possibilities. Logan can only hope it will last.


	18. T minus 18 seconds

Logan knocks a rhythm into the legs of his chair with his heels, absently observing the cafe. Not terribly busy, given how close to society’s generally-agreed-upon dinnertime it is. Most people have the good sense to be out for a late meal, if not relaxing at home and sleeping off some comfort food. Logan is not included among those ‘most people,’ in case that wasn’t clear.

He glances out the finger-smudged window, watching a leaf skitter across the pavement. A couple of kids chase it along ahead of a slower kid, their backpacks abandoned at the base of a nearby oak tree. Probably a need for speed type deal. Something happens on the table in front of Logan, but he’s too intently focused on the kids outside to notice.

“Logan.”

He waves a vague hand in the direction of the voice, not really processing who it belongs to. At last, the lagging kid catches up and jumps forward, crushing the leaf under their dirt-streaked tennis shoe. The other kids clap them on the back in congratulations.

“Okay, what is it?” He glances across the table to Virgil, who’s sitting on the seat diagonal from him and sipping absently at a cup of coffee that’s probably in the process of melting a few oversized dollops of whipped cream. Virgil doesn’t seem to notice that Logan suddenly decided to start paying attention, which means the latter is free to ogle his husband to his heart’s content. How the faint purple of his fading hair dye hangs just so over his forehead, how that one stubborn spot of acne near his chin pushes his lips up into a half smile, how his eyes sparkle with the light of the early evening sun, how, just by looking at him, Logan can tell he’s savoring every ounce of this moment without even thinking about it.

“What are you doing?” Virgil finally asks, turning around and catching Logan mid-stare. If Logan knew anything about grade school crushes, he would know that this is the part where he’s supposed to quickly shift his gaze, embarrassed to high heck. But he didn’t, so he doesn’t.

“Admiring how good you look.”

“Ew, dork.”

“We’re married. I’m allowed to say things like that.” Logan holds up his ring finger and tilts his head toward it with a lopsided grin. “Sorry, pal, but you’re stuck with me.”

“Just be quiet and drink your drink,” Virgil mumbles into his cup, his face turning a lovely shade of pink. Logan smiles to himself and lifts his own cup to his lips, taking a long sip from the straw. “Where are they, anyway? Weren’t we supposed to meet here at, like, seven?”

“Please, you’ve met Roman. It’ll take him at least that long to get his hair done. Don’t pretend like you expected him to be punctual.”

“I guess it’s just a downright tragedy that we got here on time, then.”

“Indeed. Send in the clowns, as it were.”

“Don’t bother, they’re here.” Virgil jerks his chin toward the door, over which a bell proudly chimes to announce the arrival of Patton and Roman. True to form, Roman’s hair looks as painstakingly effortless as ever, and Logan can’t help but wonder just how early he has to get up to be at work on time (or five minutes late) while managing to look like  _ that. _

“Heya, lovebirds!” Patton calls, waving far more emphatically than necessary as he drags Roman into the queue. Roman barely remembers to toss them a passing glance, more focused on the exhaustively detailed menus.

“Remind me why we agreed to this?” Virgil mutters. He swirles the contents of his cup around, but there’s definitely a smile lurking under his feigned irritation.

“Because we’re nice people who talk to other nice people like the good little members of society we pretend to be.”

“Sounds overrated.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“Hey, what’re we talkin’ about?” Patton asks, plopping himself down beside Virgil. Logan nods his greeting as Virgil knocks elbows with Patton in a weird not-quite-but-still-kind-of handshake. An elbowshake, perhaps.

“Why society and its conventions are overrated.”

Logan cocks his head to the side, watching Patton’s brow wrinkle. “There’s a little more to it than that.”

“Not really.”

“And you say that on what grounds?”

“Well, for one,  _ you _ started it, and for another—”

“I would hardly say I started it. You’re the one that brought up—”

“Only because you insisted we had to act per—”

“Patton!” Roman interrupts, sitting beside Logan and plunking his cup down on the table. “Tell them what Morgan did today!” Logan doesn’t have time to wonder why Roman got his drink before Patton, as the latter launches into an excited and (some would say excessively) detailed account of the make-believe game his daughter thought up in the backyard, right down to the surnames of her imaginary fallen teammates. Actually, Logan isn’t entirely convinced that Patton himself isn’t the one with the active imagination, even to the point of making up these stories about his daughter on the spot.

“Ariel still doing okay?” Virgil cuts in. Maybe trying to steer the conversation away from how many shades of grass Morgan decreed as being ‘queendom property,’ but who’s to say?

The question sets Patton off all over again, this time encouraging an enthusiastic catalogue of every last one of Morgan’s mother’s movements. How she brought over surprise balloons for Morgan and held her breath the whole time because of her latex allergy (which Patton isn’t entirely convinced she has) but she could be telling the truth since it could’ve been an allergy that developed after her childhood and it certainly wasn’t of top conversation priority on that one messy night nine months before Morgan was born but maybe they should’ve looked into it when she first tested positive on that little stick in case she passed it on to Morgan when they—

“Large coffee for Patton?” Patton jolts out of his seat and is at the pickup counter before Logan can blink. As Patton strikes up a cheerful conversation with the (mercifully unannoyed) barista, Roman twists to look at Logan.

“Ten bucks says he doesn’t need all the crap in that cup.”

Logan is almost afraid to ask, but curiosity begs satisfaction. “What’d he get?”

“Okay, so you know how a large is twenty ounces, yeah? And a single shot of espresso is one ounce?”

“Very much did not ask for the vocabulary lesson, but continue.”

“Right, yes, but it’s important to me that you know all that. Anyways, apply that knowledge when I tell you he got fifteen shots of espresso, one long shot, and two ristretto shots. Oh, and five packets of splenda.” More jarring to Logan than that disaster of a coffee order is the look on Virgil’s face—not surprised in the slightest, as if someone had told him Patton ordered a regular cup of black coffee or something.

“I’m sorry, but how did you figure out that you  _ liked _ that combination abomination?” Logan asks as Patton returns with a smile over his shoulder to the barista.

“Oh, you know, little of this, little of that.” Patton grins at Logan, and something in his eyes makes Logan’s stomach turn. Logan watches in horror as he knocks back far more than what could be considered an advisable amount of coffee. In a voice like a demon banished from the depths of hell for bad behavior, Patton whispers, “Taste is meaningless. There is no flavor that could supplement the raw energy in this.” Logan isn’t entirely sure whether or not he’s making up this whole exchange to cope with Patton’s drink order, a fear which is not helped in the slightest by Virgil’s continued nonchalance.

“That’s actually one of his tamer drinks,” Virgil finally remarks, studying his nails.

Before the shock of this nonsense has even begun to wear off, Roman decides it’s been too long since he had a turn to speak. “So, mister promotion man, what do you think of the new location? You seen it yet? Been inside?”

“First off, stop calling me that. You got promoted, too. Second, no, I’ve avoided finding out any details aside from the address and how to get there from home.”

“Even finding that out took a solid two days of me pestering him to look it up,” Virgil chimes in, now messing around with his phone. “If it weren’t for me, he probably wouldn’t even know there  _ was _ a relocation happening.”

“That’s entirely true, actually,” Logan admits. “We were talking wedding plans and he wanted to send me something, and I must’ve had my do not disturb mode on, because I completely missed the email about the move.”

“Not to mention all the texts and calls from  _ me _ that you so callously ignored! You didn’t return a single one!” Roman sputters indignantly. “It’s like we aren’t even friends! I mean, how cruel can you be? Those texts could have been important!”

“Oh, are we friends? You should’ve told me sooner.” Logan swivels in his seat to face Roman, well aware that Patton and Virgil both have their full attention on the conversation’s direction change. “We see each other at work, and we’ve interned together since way back when, but that’s hardly solid grounds for declaring friendship.”

“We are literally on a double coffee date right now. Like, I am sitting in a coffee shop with you and your husband and everyone’s best friend Patton, and it has nothing to do with work.” Patton blinks at the mention of his name and smiles absently.

“Okay, but it’s not a  _ date _ , because you aren’t dating Patton, not to mention that attending a coffee peddler at the same time doesn’t necessarily denote being anything more than work colleagues.”

Virgil covers his mouth as he leans over to whisper something to Patton, who giggles into his cup of caffeinated chaos incarnate.

“You tell them!” Patton whisper-shouts.

“I’m not saying it.” Virgil folds his arms and mimes zipping his lips, slouching back in his seat. Logan really ought to have a serious talk with him about proper ergonomic posture, but that’s a lecture for another day. He quirks an eyebrow at Patton’s muffled laughter, but Roman clearly isn’t about to let him dodge the conversation (which had no business existing in the first place) so easily.

“We are seriously hanging out right now. Like, casual hangout session in a coffee shop. You with your husband, your husband with his close work friend, that work friend with his best friend, and that best friend just so happens to be  _ your _ work friend. This is a large and tangled web here, my good sir, and I will kindly ask that you respect it.”

“How am I supposed to respect such a convoluted string of coincidences, much less one that means so little with how it’s laid out?”

Patton bursts into a full-on belly laugh at whatever Virgil whispers this time. It genuinely looks like his face might straight-up explode from how red it turns, but he shakes his head profusely when Virgil juts his chin toward Logan. “I can’t say that!” Patton squeals. Virgil winks at an understandably bewildered Logan, who would very much like to move on to a new topic of discussion right about now. No such luck.

“So what are your requirements for friendship then, huh?” Roman gets up in Logan’s face,washing him in a wave of coffee breath. Logan grimaces. “Staring at some poor, unsuspecting tour guide in a museum until they take pity on you and accept your desperate pleas to go on a date with you?” Roman puts enough silliness into his tone that it’s clear he’s kidding, so Logan decides to play along. What’s the harm?

“Right, because I’m keeping Virgil in this relationship on my own terms. Virgil, blink twice if you proposing to me was an elaborate ruse for your own chance at single life again. Blink once if that’s not true.” Virgil blinks three times. “You are a monster.” Virgil bats his eyelashes. Logan might scream. Virgil winks.

“Friendship is a weird thing, anyway,” Patton pipes up, a hint of that laughter still tinting the edges of his voice. “I mean, I’m still super close friends with Ariel, and we had a stinkin’  _ kid _ together. Meanings can change, I think, since words are already so hard in the first place. Isn’t that a fair agreement?”

Logan and Roman grumble vague sounds of acknowledgement, though their matching unhappy tones make it clear—at least, they do to Logan—that neither of them actually wanted a real answer to their little debate. They were just arguing for the fun of it, kind of like—

“Hey, what about that Neptune expedition riddle from way back when?” Roman says suddenly. “Logan, y’member that? Never did manage to solve it, huh?”

“Oh, no, I definitely solved it. I simply refused to share with rhizocephalan barnacles such as yourself.” Roman—along with the rest of the table—blinks silently at Logan, who crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Just google it. I’m not a dictionary.”

“You’re  _ my _ dictionary,” Virgil coos in a honey-sweet voice.

“Never say that again,” Logan mumbles halfheartedly. Let’s all agree to ignore the blood that rushes to color Logan’s cheeks as he considers the pros and cons of dreaming up something equally lovey-dovey. No, better not. Why ruin his stoic reputation with an attempt at romance that’s doomed to fail before it even launches? Might as well stay quiet, watching the topic jump again.

Well, more like Virgil shoves the current topic off a cliff, but you get the idea.

“How’s Ariel doing on that new degree?” he asks. This sets Patton off on yet another tangent about her career, her interests, her grades, her field studies, and who knows what else as Logan takes another sip of his drink and lets his eyes drift to the window. Some kids sprint across the sidewalk, arms spread like wings, chasing a leaf as it floats along with the gentle evening breeze.


	19. T minus 15 seconds

Logan furrows his brow and stares daggers at his computer, willing the trembling stacks of lines and curves to organize themselves into something intelligible. The towers of letters and numbers collapse, as does his head into his hands.

“Hey, spaceman, how much longer you gonna be here?” Roman asks, appearing behind Logan’s chair.

Logan buries his fingernails in his hair, massaging them toward the back of his head and playing with the arms of his glasses. “Ages, probably, and why ‘spaceman?’ Hardly a creative nickname for people working in a minor NASA offshoot. Couldn’t you do any better? It’s not like I’m the only one here wanting to be an astronaut.”

“Yeah, but you’re the only one here that’s so ridiculously dedicated to it. I mean, even Katie-Lee went home already, and she’s pretty much, like, head honcho or something.”

“You say that like I’m a new intern in need of exposition, rather than an employee who’s been well aware of her position for years. And it’s  _ Miss _ Katie-Lee, which you’ll do well to remember.”

Roman drapes himself over Logan’s shoulder, stretching his arms over his head and blocking Logan’s view of the screen. “I don’t think I’ll be remembering that any time soon, but I suppose this is the part where I thank you for the suggestion.”

“Kindly remove yourself from my person. Unlike some people around here, I actually have important work to do.”

“Seriously? What is it, balancing more equations? Can’t you put that through google or something?”

“Google isn’t going to tell me in a clean five page report the exact moral conflicts related to launching a person into space and knowing their mission will take too long to survive a return trip, much less the mathematics required for them to build a system to get home on its own autopilot to pass along information they acquire at the destination that they can’t give directly from that long of a travel away. That’s not even taking into account the weight we need to factor in for the additional materials, or the mental toll we’ll be forcing on the traveler—we can’t exactly send someone with a terminal illness or someone on death row, since they certainly won’t be in the peak mental or physical condition necessary for the job, and you can get back to me whenever on how we break the news that we only want to give them a salary for the several limited months it’ll take to train them, before they get launched on what everyone knows to be a suicide mission.  _ Everyone _ will know they’re doomed. Everyone.”

Barely even breathing, Roman slowly straightens. Well, it sounds like he’s barely breathing. Or, er, it  _ doesn’t _ sound like that. All Logan can say for certain is that there’s an immense ringing in his ears that drowns out pretty much everything else. He drops his head to his desk.

“Are they actually planning a mission like that?”

“They want to be prepared for the unfortunately possible eventuality in which we might have to do that sort of thing. ‘We’ll have to make some sacrifices at one point or another,’ they say, as if I don’t already know that. As if I’m not already painfully aware of that. As if we don’t come into work every day knowing  _ damn well _ that we’re all working ourselves to an early grave, because there’s virtually no way to expand our extraterrestrial horizons without losing a few lives along the way.” Logan winces at a sharp stab of pain against his temple. Another headache, no doubt.

“Even if it’s only a theoretical hypothetical, they wouldn’t have you working on it if they didn’t think it was a legitimate possibility.” Logan grunts a wordless confirmation at having heard the worry in Roman’s voice, but says nothing. Roman pulls out his phone and starts typing, only eliciting a response from Logan when whatever he’s doing flashes a bright light in Logan’s peripheral vision.

“What are you doing.” It’s not a question. It’s barely even an acknowledgement.

“Texting your husband proof that you need a vacation.”

“I don’t take vacations.”

“Duh, obviously I know that. If you took vacations, maybe you could be gone on an actual honeymoon.”

“Honeymoons are the free market’s way of draining more money from newlyweds who are too high on emotions to realize how much money they’re constantly flushing down the—”

“Yeah, I get it, communism for the win.”

“Socialism.”

“Same difference.”

“Not really.”

“Anyway, just go home and talk to Virgil. You need a vacation, and I told him that’s his new top priority.”

“As if he’d take orders from you.”

“He would if he knew his husband looked like such a hot mess-ra.” Roman flips the phone around, and Logan squints back against the brightness of the picture. Yeah, no, certainly not a pretty sight. Maybe he should start working out more. “Come to think of it, he  _ does _ know you look like this, since I just sent it to him. So get a move on.”

“But I haven’t finished my—”

“And you  _ won’t _ finish it if you don’t learn to take breaks between work sprints.”

“But I have a presentation on—”

“I do not care. Go home.” Roman leans forward and punches the power button on Logan’s monitor, clicking the screen into a peaceful abyss of black. “Go home. Please?”

Logan waffles between turning his screen back on (Roman only put it in sleep mode, after all) and slugging him for possibly damaging a solid couple hour’s worth of work, but a surprise third contender takes the lead for his attention. He shrugs his jacket on and rises, plucking a pen from behind his ear and dropping it in his pen cup. Roman gives a sigh of relief, and Logan wonders whether it was that obvious that he wanted to punch him.

“I hope you know how little I—”

“Yeah, yeah, everything sucks and you want to finish your work, I  _ get _ it. Go  _ home _ , Mr. Sanders.”

It is of this stern farewell that Logan is reminded as he tugs the front door shut behind him and steps into the apartment.

“You’re home.” Virgil sounds surprised, and Logan wonders exactly how guilty he should feel that Virgil would never expect him home in time for dinner. He also wonders whether this would be a good time to bring up how Virgril is  _ always _ home, never getting an education or a real job or pursuing any passions, but Virgil never seems to be in the mood for that particular conversation. Logan is starting to suspect they’ll never realize that internal disparity.

Oh, right, he’s supposed to say something now.

“I’m home.” A very clever response, if Logan does say so himself. (He does not.)

“Why are you home so early?”

“Why do you assume I’d be late?”

“Because you’re always late.”

“I am early to every appointment and engagement I schedule.”

“Yeah, and you stay there late, which makes you late when you get to non-work things. Like when you get home late. Again.”

Logan hangs his jacket on the door and nods. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t really know what it is that he’s apologizing for, but he certainly isn’t about to admit as much.

“It’s fine.” Virgil’s tone makes it painfully clear that it is not, in fact, ‘fine,’ and Logan has no idea what to do about it. “Roman says you need a vacation.”

“Yes. Well, er, long day, y’know?”

“Right.”

“So I’ll just head off to bed early, then.”

“Sure. Set out some extra clothes, I guess. Maybe we can drive up north to see the leaves changing this weekend if you get out early enough. You probably won’t, but it’s worth a shot.”

Logan bites his tongue and heads into the bedroom. Why did Virgil get so mad about something so inconsequential as unpenalized punctuality? It’s not as if Logan getting home early (well, more like ‘just past on time’) should be seen as a bad thing—Virgil should’ve been  _ happy _ at the surprise of being able to spend more time together. Maybe Logan should’ve just stayed at work.


	20. T minus 14 seconds

After a night of fitful, restless sleep over having come home early, Logan wakes up before his alarm. His eyes crack open like rusted iron doors, petrified for centuries and sealed shut to the world. It takes actual, genuine effort for him to blink them hard enough that they process the weak morning sun struggling to illuminate the blinds. He takes a few steadying breaths under the security of the covers, trying to get his mind to shake off the lingering ghost of whatever dream visited him last night.

Still not convinced that he’s fully awake and fighting the urge to keep floating in this semi-conscious state, Logan shifts his shoulders and rolls onto his side to face Virgil. He doesn’t remember hearing him come in last night, and a fleeting thought crosses his mind—does last night count as a fight? He hates this worry the instant it makes itself known. Looking at Virgil’s perfect features, Logan wonders what kind of idiot he’d have to be to get in a fight with a face like  _ that. _

Asleep, he looks so peaceful. Cheesy and predictable, sure, but undeniable nevertheless. Logan revels in the chance to admire him without being interrupted. He loves how smooth his forehead is now, unwrinkled by the burdens of the fears that run rampant through his consciousness. He loves how his eyes are closed softly, his eyelashes ever so close to his cheekbones that point to his jaw, unclenched and free of irritation or stress. He loves picturing the gentle hazel behind those eyelids, more than content with the fact that his imagination could never compete with the real thing. He loves tracing the shape of that pale nose, slender enough but just a little too long for the rest of his face. He loves how it matches his ears, almost elven in terms of size, as if his growth slowed after puberty but his nose and ears didn’t get the message—or they did, and decided to do the opposite in the name of rebellion without a cause.

He loves the thin layer of bangs draping from his forehead, fluttering slightly with each exhale. He loves how they always try to cover his mismatched features, how they can’t be bothered to act as curtains when Virgil isn’t awake to worry about it. He loves the little cluster of acne gathered over his chin, too stubborn to ever go away completely. A cloud of constellations that Virgil hates, but Logan loves every last inch of it so, so much.

Logan scooches closer and snakes a hesitant arm out over Virgil’s side. Logan isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Virgil doesn’t wake up, but he certainly doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe how he feels when Virgil makes a snuffling sound and curls in closer, resting his forehead against Logan’s chest. Rather than try to sort through all the feelings  _ that _ particular move stirs up, Logan lowers his chin to tuck Virgil’s head beneath it. For as long as he can manage, Logan stays still and breathes in the moment, loving the soft sounds of contentment—almost like purring, come to think of it—burbling from the back of Virgil’s throat.

When his alarm finally rings, forcing the pocket eternity to an unwelcome and unceremonious end, Logan (for the first time in a long, long time) dreads getting up for work. Virgil stirs and arches his back, stretching away and exposing his pale torso as the blanket falls aside.

“Better get that, don’t you think?” Logan just about melts at the low, soft sound of Virgil’s half-awake voice, but yes, unfortunately, he does need to get up.

He does not, however, need to do so immediately. Nor does he care.

He presses the snooze button—again, he can’t remember the last time he did that—and pulls Virgil in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Virgil lets out a small noise of confusion, but doesn’t squirm away.

Logan lets his head drift lower, trailing his mouth along the side of Virgil’s face as he brings his lips toward his ear. “I love you,” he murmurs, feeling it echo through his entire body as Virgil nuzzles his head into the crook of Logan’s neck.

“I love you, too.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise, either.” Logan keeps his voice low, holding back a giggle when Virgil makes that same confused sound. “I  _ will _ bring you the moon.”

Logan can almost feel Virgil smile against his skin. “It  _ will _ cost you the stars.”

“Well, now, the stars don’t come cheap, do they?” Logan’s voice is almost drowned out by the sound of his second alarm blaring to life—it’s been literal years, he thinks, since he hasn’t risen with the first one, much less the first one’s snooze return. “I suppose I’d better get going if I want to earn those stars.”

“I suppose you’d better.” As Logan moves to slip out of bed, Virgil latches onto his wrist with cold fingers and pulls him back down for a warm hug and a quick peck on the cheek. With that, he pats Logan’s arm and tugs the blankets back up over his own shoulder. “Okay, now you can go.”

“Love you,” Logan says again, hoping Virgil really, truly, sincerely feels the weight of the words. Logan knows he can feel them in his own heart.


	21. T minus 11 seconds

One of the many things on which Logan has long prided himself is his punctuality. Hand in hand with this is his insistence upon keeping appointments. These are the two thoughts running through Logan’s mind as he brazenly breaks both of those personal rules on this Friday morning. He’s never been one for superstition (‘not even a little stitious,’ in Roman’s unfortunate and inadequate words), but from the moment he ignored his alarm in favor of holding Virgil a little while longer, something in his mind quickly grew certain he’d made a mistake. He can trace the exact second, actually—when he let Virgil get back to sleep, blissfully ignoring his own lack of a consistently salaried career—when everything started going wrong. He should’ve gotten up at the first alarm, or better yet, stayed in bed all day and phoned it in. He did neither, and the consequences smacked him in the face with a wet paper towel.

He stubbed his toe on the table in the kitchenette, he forgot to prepare his overnight oatmeal last night, the car took far longer than normal to start up, there was a car with its hazards on taking up a whole lane right outside the apartment parking lot, half the lights on the way to work were out or blinking red, his jacket (the one Virgil helped him pick out at Micah’s store) got caught and ripped when he closed the car door on it, and Miss Katie-Lee dumped an absurd binder of assignments on him the moment he clocked in—exactly on time, rather than early like any other day. Logan does not believe in fate, but that string of irritating coincidences did nothing to improve his attitude.

“Why are you in such a crap mood?” Roman prods, rolling his chair over as Logan works through his normal break time.

“Because I was late to being early, and because I’m busy. Go away.”

“Wow, someone’s feeling kinda rude. Guess you didn’t take that vacation, then, huh?”

“What, in the twelve hours since I last saw you? Clearly not. And like I said, I’m busy, so unless you have something important to offer me, go away.”

“Did Katie-Lee drop all this on you just today? Dude, that hardcore blows.”

“Obviously I know that.  _ Miss _ Katie-Lee clearly thinks I can handle it, or she wouldn’t have given me it. Given it to me. Whatever.”

“Still sucks.”

“Still busy.”

Roman, despite Logan’s adamant protests, grabs a few folders from the stack and shuffles through them, plucking one out at random. “Maybe you’re just overthinking some of these. Can I help?”

“No. Literally the only thing you can do for me that would be helpful is leave me alone.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking your break right now?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking  _ yours?” _

“Yeah, I actually came over to see if you wanted to get in on our fetch quest. We’re doing an order en masse. Think we’ll get Virgil?”

“Hard no. He’s probably still asleep, and if he’s awake, he’s certainly not doing anything productive.” Logan does not particularly love how thoroughly laced with irritation his tone is, but he absolutely does not have it in himself to lighten up.

“Just let me help you with these, man, you’ve got way too much on your plate.”

“They wouldn’t have promoted me if they didn’t think I could handle it.”

“Well, they promoted  _ me _ , too, so maybe I’m supposed to handle some of it.”

“Well, they promoted you  _ after _ me, so maybe you should just piss off and leave me alone.” Logan can feel himself being a jerk, being a completely awful person for Roman to have the misfortune of being close to, but he doesn’t know how to make himself stop. Today started out so well, too, and here he is ruining it. That realization only makes him feel worse. Not bad enough to fix his attitude, but pretty bad regardless.

Roman, however, has worked with Logan for long enough to know how to handle this sort of thing from him. He rolls his chair back to his own desk, messing with his phone in silence as Logan exhales and raps a fist against his temple, fruitlessly trying to stave off the headache that’s undoubtedly on its way.

On through the rest of what should be his break and past the time where he normally answers emails and helps his colleagues with their respective (and objectively easier) problems, Logan continues chipping away at the stack. It seems more bottomless with each passing second, especially when a few emails ping into his ‘urgent’ filter and multiply the work he still has left. Given how focused he forces himself to be to power through as much as he can realistically manage, it should come as no surprise that Logan doesn’t notice the pack of people crowded around his chair until someone taps him on the shoulder.

“I already told you, I don’t—” Logan cuts himself off mid-sentence as he turns to see Micah with his arm outstretched, a visitor’s badge dangling from his neck. “I don’t—I didn’t—what are you doing here?”

“Roman called in the cavalry.”

“I can see that.” This is about the most coherent sentence Logan can manage as he takes in the rest of the people Roman apparently rallied—Cassidy and Alex, of course, along with Joy and almost all of the newer fifth floor interns. “Roman? Care to explain?”

“We are here to help,” Roman says firmly. Before Logan can even begin to protest, Roman reaches across his desk and snatches away the binder of assignments.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“I can and I did. Shut up and sit in your chair and let us help you.”

“But you aren’t supposed to—”

“And yet we are, so shut up and sit in your chair and please, for the love of all things on and beyond this planet,  _ let us help you _ .”

Logan pulls his lips between his teeth and watches Roman pass out the folders, and though he certainly doesn’t consent to anything that happens thereafter, he’s not about to go complaining to Miss Katie-Lee. Because he doesn’t want her to know he’s slacking, of course. Not, um, not for any other reason.

“We are more than just colleagues,” Roman says gently, leaning down to pat Logan’s shoulder. Logan says nothing, watching the apparent cavalry disperse to tackle the work for him. “I don’t know exactly how far you want people to go to prove they care about you, and if it takes this much, then, well, all your friends up until now have severely sucked. Logan, look, look at me, okay?” He does. His heart wrenches at the insistent look in Roman’s eyes. “We care about you so, so much, even if you don’t have it in you to care about yourself. Now sit there and don’t look at your computer screen for at least thirty minutes, and let other people  _ show _ you that you deserve to be cared about. We are not just here to collect a paycheck and go, and neither are you.”

Logan stares very intently at his desk and tries to ignore the hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It takes every ounce of his concentration not to shrug off Roman’s hand, which is rubbing reassuring circles on his back. Once the tears do fall—hypothetically, of course—well, it would be (and hypothetically is) very polite of Roman not to mention them, and to silently offer a tissue.

It is with nothing short of pure, genuine relief that Logan clocks out—late, but still—having finished the last couple assignments that Roman begrudgingly allowed him to handle on his own. He  _ had _ to let him finish those, since Logan needs them for his presentation coming up. Not really something you can pawn off on your work colleagues.

It is with nothing short of pure, genuine horror that Logan realizes the day on which he has clocked out late.

Friday.

Movie night.

Which Logan has never missed before.

Ever.

It’s a good thing there’s no patrol cars out to catch him going fifteen over the limit on his way home.

He opens the door to the apartment as quietly as he can manage, more than a little disheartened by the silence waiting beyond. Inside, he sees the television screen displaying Netflix’s message asking whether Virgil is still watching. Evidently not, as Virgil is sprawled out across the couch and snoring softly. Two coffee mugs sit on the table, one empty, the other full.

What’s that old adage about falling asleep angry, going to bed without resolving a fight? ‘Don’t do it, you absolute fool? You complete and utter buffoon? Think you have the power to cut God’s hair with Krafty Krinkle-Kut safety scissors? Huh? Punk?’ Logan briefly wonders what the ramifications of ignoring that might be, given that this is the second night in a row that it’s happened. He pulls off his cardigan (which now sports a glorious rip up the right side) and drapes it over Virgil, careful not to wake him as he gently pries the remote from his hand. After clicking the television off and preparing his overnight oatmeal, he turns out the few remaining lights and heads into the bedroom, removing the layers of clothing constricting his lungs as he goes.

The bed feels much colder than normal. He kicks all the covers and sheets off, curls up in a ball in the middle of the mattress, and tries to sleep.

It takes hours.

He’s freezing.


	22. T minus 10 seconds

Logan sifts through his notecard stack again, wishing (not for the first time) that he would’ve had the foresight to holepunch them and run a string through to maintain some semblance of organization. But no, no, past Logan decided that present-Logan should agonize over minute fears while sweating bullets in an empty conference room. He just about screams his lungs to shreds when the door swings open, but it’s only Roman, who displays an encouraging smile and a double thumbs-up. “Am I late?”

“The opposite, war funce—er, for once. I, uh, I start in efflen—eleven nim—minutes. Eleven minutes. Until I start.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

“Because of how many things that can go wrong. Just ask Murphy, I’m basically guaranteed to fail by his logic. Where’s notecard seven?” Logan places the stack of notecards on the table as gingerly as possible, perfectly parallel with the edge as he kneels to search the floor. “I lost the seventh card, what if I forget what’s on it? What if I don’t—”

“Logan, do me a favor and remind me when NASA was founded,” Roman says nonchalantly, taking a seat at the closest chair.

“July twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty—no, nineteen fifty-eight. Where did I put—”

“And how long after that did they reach the moon?”

“July sixteenth, nineteen sixty-nine. I swear, all the information for slide eighteen was on that—”

Logan glances up as Roman swats his head with the missing notecard. “Logan, those questions aren’t even important ones that you have to put any effort into, and you’ve got them  _ down _ . The stuff you’ve actually been trying with is all just concrete, and you don’t just misplace concrete. You do not need these notecards, okay? You’re gonna crush this presentation, and if you get nervous, just look at me, yeah?”

“How on Earth would looking at you be in any way helpful to me?”

“How on Earth would it not be?”

Logan slumps his shoulders and takes the notecard, reading over it. Well, he was right—it does correspond to slide eighteen. That’s something, at least. “I don’t know.”

“And you don’t need to. You’ve got this.”

“This is literally the single largest—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But it  _ does, _ though. If I don’t completely nail this presentation, I might never move on to the space exploration research tier, much less the actual  _ doing the stuff _ tier. I’ll just be doing busy work for forever, and all that rides on how well I do today.”

Roman slides down in his chair until he’s sitting on his back and kicks his foot out, rolling the chair in front of Logan aside. “Sit down.”

“But I have to—”

_ “Siddown.” _

He does.

Roman sits back up in his chair and raises his hands as if anticipating a punch Logan certainly isn’t about to throw. “You’ve been working on this presentation for months—”

“A week.”

“Don’t interrupt me. You’ve been working on things that led to you working on this for ages, and you’ve put your entire soul into it—yes you do  _ so _ have one, don’t even try me—and you are going to crush it. This whole deal is just a formality, yeah? Everyone here knows how good you can do at any job they give you, and even Katie-Lee knows you’d give her a run for her money if given half a chance.”

“Well.”

“What?”

“How  _ well _ I can do at any job. You said ‘good,’ which is wrong.”

“Seem but on your little grammar tirade, you didn’t correct me not using Katie-Lee’s honorific, which means some part of your subconscious acknowledges that you’re at least  _ on _ her level, if not above it.”

“Or it just means I’m extremely nervous.”

“That is also a valid possibility.” Roman glances to the door as a cluster of people in  _ very _ professional looking suits shuffles in. Shooting Logan a quick wink and nod, he stands and moves to a chair at the back corner of the room, where he pulls out a small notepad from his pocket. Logan lurches to his feet, suddenly all too aware of how underdressed he feels in comparison to these newcomers.

He offers nods and smiles to everyone that files in, wondering whether they know how off-putting their cool demeanors are. They probably do. It’s probably on purpose. They’ve probably already written him off as a waste of their time. At the back of the room, Roman crosses one ankle over the other knee and starts taking notes, poking his tongue out as he bends his head over the pad. Taking a few centered breaths, Logan faces the projector screen and closes his eyes.

_ Roman is right there if you need anything. He has your back. Virgil has your back from a distance. You can do this. You did presentations all the time in school, no problem. You don’t need the notecards, but they’re there if you need a parachute. Everyone in this room is just a human. If you mess up, they’ll understand. There’s always tomorrow. _ Hearing the voice in his head giving these reassurances to himself, Logan realizes why Virgil always gets annoyed when he hears them. Logan is, in fact,  _ much _ more agitated now than he was before.

“You ready?” It is extremely difficult for Logan to fight off the urge to launch himself through the ceiling at the sudden sound of Miss Katie-Lee’s voice. He turns and smiles and nods and pretends his legs aren’t still trembling with adrenaline—‘pretends’ being the operative word. “Good, then go ahead and get started.” Miss Katie-Lee takes a seat near the head of the table—stage right, if Logan’s limited theater knowledge serves him correctly. Directly across from her is pretty much the most important person to have ever stepped foot in this building. ( _ Aside from Virgil, _ says a cutesy voice in Logan’s head, which he ignores.)

Robin P. Gazebo, director of the Kennedy Space Center. If it weren’t for him, Logan would absolutely still be toiling away in computer engineering classes and looking at the stars with something akin to vague disinterest. He’s never been  _ this freaking close _ to the guy before.

For those of you keeping score at home, Logan’s heart is hovering somewhere around the planet’s mantle right now.

“Ah, Mr. Walders, is it?” Director Gazebo says, glancing over his clipboard. Undoubtedly full of information that very well might decide how Logan’s entire life plays out from here.

“Actually, I recently got married, so my surname is now Sanders, Director Gazebo, but, um, yes, that’s me,” Logan says, his voice about as panicky as he would expect it to be. He sincerely might just flat out collapse, right here, right now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you as well. Congratulations on your nuptials, by the way.” The director sticks out a hand, and Logan isn’t sure whether it’s a good or bad thing that it’s warm when he shakes it. Good, because the director is warm and inviting? Or bad, because it means Logan’s hand is cold, which could be off-putting to the most important person in the building? Or worse, because maybe the director peed on his hand to get it that warm? Do people do that? Should Logan start doing that? “And you can just call me Robin.”

“Right, yes, thank you, sorry, and you me Logan—er, you can call me Logan, I mean. If you want to.” Logan is all too aware that he sounds like a preteen meeting their pop star idol right now, but he is also aware that he will never in his life call the director anything less official than ‘the director.’ Take a wild guess which thought is occupying more space in his mind. “Shall we get started?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Logan.” Director Gazebo leans back in his chair and takes out a pen, and Logan debates the merits of sticking his head out the window for some air. Perhaps not the smartest move, but what if he really, really wants to? He doesn’t do it, of course, but the idea is quite appealing. Instead, he flicks on the projector, inhaling confidence and exhaling nerves. Seriously, how has Virgil not just up and smacked him for these inane little positivity slogans?

It takes a solid eighty-seven percent of Logan’s willpower not to glance down at his notecards before he opens his mouth. “Hello, everyone. I’d like to start by thanking you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet me here today. My name is Logan Sanders, and I would like to discuss why we as a species need to turn our attention to the stars, not for any sort of escapism, but to advance our understanding of the planet beneath us.”

Partial disclosure, Logan spent the better part of two days coming up with that intro.

Full disclosure, he has absolutely no idea what happens next, and certainly has no hope of translating that into legible words. A cop-out, to be sure, but he can’t help it, so suck it up, buttercup.

Yeah, he gets through the presentation with only a few mistakes (in his defense, ‘faster than light drive’ is much easier to say at a normal speaking rate than a high-on-terror-and-adrenaline speaking rate). He doesn’t forget any crucial information, nor does he need to peek at notecard seven, and he manages to make eye contact with everyone, and he even cracks a few jokes that seem to land well enough. He only has to look at Roman a couple times (whereupon he sees him holding up his phone with a picture of Virgil’s face edited onto the moon, which admittedly does make him smile), but that’s about all Logan can say for sure.

The moment it’s over—finished, done, complete, well and truly  _ over, _ a wave of relief that Logan is certain his audience can see—he exhales and smiles and powers off the projector. Nothing has ever felt better than the resounding silence in the space now devoid of the projector’s humming.

Well, nothing aside from what happens next.

“That was very intriguing, Logan,” Director Gazebo says, giving him a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I suspect there will be much to discuss tonight.”

“I, um, thank you, direc—sir.” Logan swallows around a tight lump in his throat as the director, along with everyone that followed him in, exits the room, comparing and exchanging notes. Once only Miss Katie-Lee and Roman remain, Logan perches on the sole chair that was empty for the whole presentation.

“That was quite impressive,” Miss Katie-Lee says. “Not to mention how quickly you managed to pull it off, too, even with all those extra assignments I needed from you. You certainly have a keen eye for quality.” Leaving Logan stunned into silence there at the table, Miss Katie-Lee takes her leave. Down to just Logan and Roman.

Logan lets out a long, anguished groan and drops his forehead to the table with a  _ thunk _ , watching his hands tremble against his thighs. “That could not possibly have gone any—”

“Better? You’re right, you did fantabulous,” Roman cuts in, scraping his chair across the room to Logan’s side. “Man, they loved you. Bet they fast track you to the top after that one. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a solid breakdown of the velocities of space-time travel before, and I’ve certainly never  _ cared _ about them before.”

Logan allows himself a small laugh through his nose and tries to smile, wondering whether now would be an acceptable time to run amok in the streets, screaming his head off.

“Hey, Logan, buddy?”

“Mmn.”

“You wanna look at me?”

Logan shakes his head, expecting to be left alone, so perhaps you can imagine and understand his surprise when he feels his hair being yanked upward.  _ “Ow!” _

Roman laughs and retracts his hand, leaving Logan rubbing at the freshly sore spot at the crown of his head. “What? I needed you to look at me!”

“Why did you need to physically harm the literal hairs on my head to accomplish that?”

“Because it’s important to me that you get how sincere I am when I say what I’m about to say.” The look of unabashed sincerity in Roman’s face is more than a little disquieting, as Logan is far more used to Roman having at least a little humor in his expression. “You did good. You did really, really good.”

Logan looks back down at the table, at the notecards still perfectly parallel to the edge. “Huh. I guess I did, didn’t I?”


	23. T minus 9 seconds

Logan stares out the window, watching nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. No breeze, no leaves, no kids, no backpacks, no nothing. Everything is empty and still, the world having turned in for an early night and leaving Logan in the dust.

“You gonna drink any of your coffee?”

It’s more of an afterthought than actual acknowledgement of the question when Logan turns his head to see Virgil pointing at his mug, untouched on the table. “Maybe.”

“Alright, well, just hurry up, or it’ll get cold, and then I’ll drink it, and then where would we be?”

“Responsibly consuming the goods our hard-earned money went toward purchasing?” Virgil squints at Logan with a strange look in his eyes, and Logan wonders whether now would be a good time to bring up that whole ‘ideal career disparity thing. As he opens his mouth to discuss as much, the door swings open and the bell chimes cheerfully. It’ll have to wait, then.

“Hi, we did a door dash for Patton?” Patton calls, waving to the barista. She smiles and nods and holds up two cups, one of which she passes off to Roman. “Thanks much!”

“Anything exciting happen yet? We miss any significant developments?” Roman asks in lieu of greeting as he plops himself to Logan’s right. Patton perches on the chair opposite Roman, exchanging that same weird elbowshake with Virgil again—backwards this time, since they’re on opposite sides, but it looks strange either way. So.

“Not really,” Virgil mumbles, finally taking Logan’s cup for himself. “I guess this one is on a silent treatment tirade for no reason, so that’s neat.”

“Oh,  _ is _ he now?” Roman’s voice is much more mischievous than Logan would prefer it to be. “Logan, did you tell him about—”

“No.” An uncomfortable silence falls in the wake of his abrupt answer, but Logan is hardly aware of it as he returns his gaze to the window. A thin layer of clouds has descended, a weak veil to shield the stars from the rest of the world, and he wonders. Not about anything in particular. He just wonders.

“So!” Patton says brightly. “Virgil, you still on for that big-up tour group tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no, for sure.” Logan wonders whether there’s something he’s supposed to notice about the tone of Virgil’s voice, but he certainly has no idea what that would be. “So, what, do they have a huge final coming up or something? The groups don’t normally get that big.”

“No, but there’s some extra credit opportunity that a bunch of the main feeder schools got together to start up, since the students this year haven’t been—”

The conversation falters and fades from Logan’s ears as he watches the clouds floating across the sky. Pretty unnerving, if you think about it, how ‘space’ as most people normally define it is only sixty-eight miles away. He could drive a car straight upward for an hour or so and just be in space. Off the planet. Literally out of this world, and it’s only an hour’s drive away, and he’s stuck here with the suffocating gravity of Earth. His legs suddenly feel very heavy.

“Hello? Mission control to Logan?”

Logan absently turns his head, and he’s pretty sure his eyes land somewhere around Roman’s face, but they refuse to focus. “Yeah.”

“Did you tell them about the follow-up?”

“No.”

“Did, um—did you  _ want _ to?”

“No.”

That same silence returns. Logan wonders.

“Okay. Um, so, Patton, remember that new assignment I was telling you about, the one Cassidy thought—”

“What would happen if we found life off Earth, beyond our solar system?” Logan asks suddenly. Roman gives him wary look, but the question is already out in the open. Nothing to be done for it now. Logan wonders.

“Um, it would be pretty cool, I guess?” Patton tries. There’s something in his voice that Logan doesn’t know what to do with. “Hopefully it’d be peaceful and friendly?”

“Why do you ask?” Virgil sounds about as interested in this conversation as Logan was in the previous one—which is to say, not interested in the slightest. Maybe he’s looking at the clouds outside. Maybe he’s looking past them, too.

“What would we do if they contacted us? What if they insisted on meeting on their turf, maybe light years away, a guaranteed one-way trip because we don’t know who would walk out of that meeting alive? What if they said no? Would they come here and raze the planet? Is sacrificing one person to the possibility of expansion worth protecting the billions of lives that don’t even know it’s happening? Would it make a difference if you knew that one person?”

“Slow down, Lo, take a breath or something.” Roman’s voice, in an attempt to soothe Logan, only serves to agitate him further.

“What if it was you? What if it was me?”

“That’s not really—” Roman begins, but Virgil has apparently had just about enough of this.

“Then everyone is screwed, and you bringing shop talk to coffee night would have done nothing to prevent it. Is there anything you actually  _ want _ to talk about?”

“I just—”

“Because if not, then why are we even here? Why did you come out here to sulk and stare out the window and bring down the conversation when Patton and Roman could be doing literally anything else besides listen to you whining about hypotheticals?”

Logan bites at a piece of dead skin on his lip, wincing when it tears off some of the fresh underlayer with it. “Not like I have anything else I can talk about.”

“Because work is your life, that’s right, how could I forget?”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

“Say that again.”

Admittedly, this is neither the time nor place Logan expected to have this conversation, but he’s said it himself multiple times—it does have to happen eventually. No time like the present. “Like you’re one to talk. The only job you can actually claim is as a temporary tour guide who sometimes shows up on alternate days to a museum that can get away with paying you less than you deserve for what you do.”

“The  _ kids _ pay me, actually, in tips that are neither required nor solicited, because they know how much I care about doing a good job and helping them. How do you know you’re doing a good job if you get paid the same amount every other week, no matter how crappy your work is?”

“Because you’ve so clearly forgotten that I was promoted and given a salary increase, right? Because surely that had nothing to do with the new car, or the likelihood of a motorcycle, right? Because obviously the spare change from those kids is what’s paying for our auto and life insurance, right?”

“That is not fair.”

“You want to talk to me about  _ fair? _ ” Logan explodes. He can see Roman flinching away in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t care. “Is it fair that you get to be the emotional one? Is it fair that you always get to get mad about whatever trivial thing crossed you that day, while I suck up my  _ fucking _ pride and come apologize to you when not once, not a single time in  _ four fucking years, _ have you realized that maybe,  _ just fucking maybe, _ you might be in the wrong? Is that not fair? Is it? Because if not, then why don’t you go ahead and tell me what  _ is _ fair, hm? Is it fair that you live on your own schedule and barely scrape by with what that nets you? Is it fair that you choose to act like a  _ child _ who still thinks money grows on the trees in the tooth fairy’s garden?”

“It is if that’s the life I chose to lead. I never  _ asked _ you to start funneling your bank account into my life.”

“But you agreed to as much when you proposed, yes? When you said your ‘I do?’ That’s not exactly a small question and answer combination you just tossed out for no reason, is it? I would even venture that you  _ knew _ what you were doing, being a grown adult, and you still—”

_ “Okay!” _ Patton yells, banging his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the window. Logan shrinks away from it, and even Virgil seems to recoil. By some miracle, the barista—and any of the other coffee shop patrons, for that matter—are nowhere to be seen. “This is absolutely outside the boundary of appropriate conversations to have on a nice coffee night, but if y’all wanna have it, we can have it.

“Logan, you need to lay off Virgil. He was getting by just fine on his own before you, and you need to stop acting so high and mighty about the opportunities your life and upbringing has afforded you, because not everyone comes from a family that can put them through a prestigious college that funnels them straight into a selective and competitive area of the workforce.” Virgil juts his chin out at Logan and crosses his arms, but Patton isn’t done yet. “Virgil, you need to accept that not everything static, and you can’t get by on pennies and favors forever, even if you have distant parents behind the curtain to catch you if you fall. Logan is trying to have a reasonable discussion with you about your futures—which, like it or not, are connected—and you keep shutting him out or shutting him down, plugging your ears and babbling because your pride is too important to consider that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t kill you to ask for help once in a while. You’re  _ both _ acting like children. Grow the fuck up.”

With that, Patton shoves his chair back and stomps out of the cafe. Logan isn’t sure whether he’s breathing anymore. He looks at Roman, who opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. Not even offering a farewell, Roman stands and follows Patton out the door.

“Virgil, I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Virgil moves for the door. Logan doesn’t lift a hand to stop him. He instead turns his head toward the window again, the world still empty, still passive, still silent. He wonders whether Virgil can see the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes through the glass. He doesn’t wipe them away.

He just wonders.


	24. T minus 8 seconds

Logan fidgets listlessly with his pen, taking it apart and putting it back together, apart and together, apart and together, apart and together and apart. His mind flirts with the idea of throwing the whole bundle across the room and heaving an agonized scream. Probably not the best idea, especially when the director is due to show up any minute. Well, due to show up any ten minutes ago, more like. Logan wrestles with his mind not to jump to the worst possible conclusions— _ you’re getting demoted you’re getting fired he hates you he lied about liking your presentation he’ll want a follow-up in a time frame that will guarantee failure and you’ll fade into mediocrity and obscurity as a lowly intern just like everyone always said you would. _

He is not terribly successful at fending off the worst possible conclusions, if you couldn’t tell.

In the same moment as he screws the grippy back onto the pen for perhaps the thousandth time, the door bangs open. Logan immediately straightens and rolls his shoulders back, praying that the director was looking down at something and didn’t notice Logan being so lazy as to not be at ramrod attention at all times.

“Logan.”

“Hello, Direc—er, Robin. What did you need to see me for?”

Director Gazebo stalks past him, flipping through a thick binder overflowing with document covered in highlights and black-out redactions and annotations. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?”

“Oh! Oh, sorry, I, um—I’m good—uh, well, I mean. I’m well. You thank for asking.”

Sighing heavily, the director shoots him a wary look and continues toward the window, where he pulls down at the blinds to peer at the storm raging outside. Lightning slashes in an angry arc across the sky. “I assume you don’t know why you’re here, then.”

“I—no, I don’t, sir. Sorry.”

The director leaves the window and turns around, massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Logan, you’ve done some impressive work in your time here.”

“Thank you, sir, I—”

“Did not let me finish. You’ve done some impressive work, but surely even  _ you _ must understand that there can always be room for improvement.” Logan’s heart leaps into his throat as he feels his mind ripped away from the present and thrown back into high school, where the threat of a bad grade—and the accompanying disciplinary consequences—lurked around every corner. “What manner of ultimate goal or achievement did you have in mind upon becoming a part of this organization?”

“Well, sir, to go to space, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“To go to space, sir. I want to go to space, and I want to use whatever extraterrestrial knowledge there is to advance what humanity is capable of. Er, that of which humanity is capable.”

The director is at the table in an instant, slamming the binder down hard on the solid surface. It’s achingly loud, and Logan very nearly drops his pen in surprise. He tucks it behind his ear, just to be safe.

“See, you say that, and it’s the answer each of your colleagues has said you’ve given them, and I’m sure you do  _ believe _ that you want to advance the world and take risks and do the right thing in the name of research and exploration, but that is simply not reflected in the work you’ve done.” The director pulls out a dog-eared page, pointing with a thick finger to a chunk of text highlighted in pink. Logan spots several appearances of his name in the area. “Ever since you first earned an internship here, you’ve been doing the same work. It’s always been of objectively high quality, always pleasantly impressive, but never surprising, never  _ ambitious. _ Very by-the-book, which is all fine and well, but I didn’t allow Katie-Lee to promote you simply so you could continue at your same level of repetitive mediocrity.

“You got your promotion based on the hope that it would inspire you to take more risks with your work. Look at your colleague Roman, for example.” The director slides out another sheet, this one generously marked up in yellow and orange and blue. “See how much ground his work covers? He looks into topics most people have never considered, explores connections few have ever thought of. Your promotion came earlier based on seniority, but you and Roman have both been in our sights for a good while with regards to moving you up the ranks. You aren’t special simply for doing your job. You need to go above and beyond if you want to achieve the dream you claim you have, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.”

Logan blinks quickly, wondering if—or terrified that—his eyes are as red as they feel. “With all due respect, sir, I—”

“If any of that respect is here as you say, you would do well not to knee-jerk reject and contradict the facts I have been so considerate as to lay out for you. You’ve seen your numbers, you’ve done the work, you’re ready in all technical and legal respects to continue working toward your ultimate goals, but you just don’t have the  _ passion _ for it. You don’t have the fire behind your eyes, not like Roman does. Roman is always moving, always talking to his colleagues, always broadening his horizons and learning as much as he can from the world around him while you isolate yourself and refuse to absorb any information that doesn’t come from a block of text in a legal document.

“If, by some miracle, you find that fire, that passion, that deep and true desire that you so stubbornly insist you have? And you really apply yourself to your work, not that safe middle path you’ve been taking, you prove that you really want this as much as you say you do, maybe we can see about getting you higher up the ladder. But that presentation you gave me? By all accounts a good presentation, but a predictable one. Nothing exciting, nothing unexpected, nothing a monkey at a typewriter couldn’t’ve spat out eventually.

“Work on obtaining the attitude and tenacity you currently lack, and I will do everything in my power to get you where you want to go. I do expect you’ll disappoint me, though I hope you prove me wrong.” The director strides over to the window and tugs at the blinds again, peering out at the ocean of tears falling from the clouds. Lightning strikes, highlighting a cold emptiness in the director’s face that Logan hadn’t noticed before. Maybe that he didn’t  _ want _ to notice before. “I doubt you will.”

Logan swallows tightly and nods, belatedly realizing the director can’t exactly hear a gesture. “Yes, sir, I will do everything in my—”

“It was not a question.” The director lets the blinds fall one final time and takes a few measured steps toward Logan. It’s stunning, really, how imposing the man can seem at barely an inch taller than Logan. Logan isn’t terribly tall to begin with, but still. “You will likely fail, at which point nothing will change, and you will have proven me correct. Is that all?” Logan stays silent. “Then I think we’re done here.”

The director takes his leave, the door slamming shut behind him with a bang. Logan stares hard at the ground and tries not to cry. He suddenly feels very, very small. Small like a child, told off for sticking his hand in the cookie jar. Small like a new employee on strict probation, prophesied to fail before he’s begun. Small like the insignificant nothing he is, with all the worlds and stars and galaxies and universes rippling out and away from him, and he’s only the smallest speck, not worth the dust stuck to the underside of a cockroach.

It’s not until Logan feels a hand on his shoulder that he blinks and jolts back into himself. A glance at his lap reveals his fingers making quick work of the pen, which is in more pieces than Logan thought possible. Or maybe he just broke the pen.

“Sorry, we kind of need this meeting room,” says a familiar voice. Gentle, hesitant, worried. Logan turns, his vision hazy—he doesn’t remember removing his glasses—and registers something resembling Joy’s silhouette. She says something else, her tone dipped in concern, but whatever it is shoots past Logan’s ears and filters through the walls, joining the weak spurts of dwindling rain outside and dousing the soil below with sympathy.

Somehow, Logan finds his feet moving of their own accord, carrying him past Joy and out the door and to the stairwell, the entrance to which might as well be solid cement. He can’t get his mind to cooperate with the idea of that thing opening up to throw him down a few stories and deposit him at the feet of someone who’s always been better than him, more passionate than him, more dedicated than him, more, well,  _ more _ than him.

“Oh, hey, let me get that for you!” someone says, squeezing past him to pull open the door. Logan blinks, and he’s pretty sure he nods his thanks to them as the door slips shut. It’s so much quieter than when the director slammed the door shut behind him.

He blinks again, and he’s at his desk. He doesn’t remember opening the door to this floor, much less all the flights to get down here. His legs don’t seem to be bruised, so he probably just walked himself the whole way and didn’t tumble down in a heap, but he can’t say for sure.

He blinks again, and he’s juggling almost all of his belongings in two unsteady arms. All that’s left is his coffee mug of the day, which he reaches for with an outstretched pinky. In a flash, the pen falls from behind his ear—he doesn’t remember putting it back together, much less tucking it away—and as he instinctively reaches to catch it, he knocks the mug to the tiled floor.

It shatters.

Something in Logan splinters as he goes perfectly still, watching the rattling debris.

There’s a good chance Roman’s head pops up in its usual spot over the partition, since Logan can’t really work out any other explanation for why he can suddenly hear his voice. “Whoa, hey, are you okay, man? Here, let me—”

_ Roman is always broadening his horizons while you isolate yourself and refuse to absorb any information that doesn’t come from a block of text in a legal document. _ “I got it.” Logan scrapes together the shards with a piece of scrap paper he fumbles from his desk, folding them up and tucking them into a ziploc bag that lives in the front pocket of his main binder—usually for notecards, but this works, too. Well, it mostly works. As he seals up the bag, he loses his grip on everything else, and all the papers gathered in his arms flutter to the ground, out of order and slipping under his desk.

The shape broadcasting Roman’s voice drops to its knees and tries to help pile together some of the pages. Logan maintains a blank expression and gathers the rest on his own, slamming them onto the desk in the only show of emotion he trusts himself to have right now. The bang echoes in his ears.

Roman’s voice comes back, and Logan wonders why it’s so hard to reconcile this silhouette with the voice of the person who is (and apparently always has been) better than him, more ambitious than him, living the life that was supposed to be  _ his _ , rather than the social butterfly intern one desk over. “Look, if this is about what Patton said the other night, I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not about that.” The coldness in Logan’s voice sends a lance of ice through his veins and strikes his core. He yanks the stack of papers from his desk and rips the remaining pages from Roman’s hands, clutching them to his chest as he stalks toward the door. He ignores how quickly the other people on this floor pretend to be busy doing absolutely anything else as he thunders past, though their stares burn like suns into his back once they’re out of his line of sight.

Logan does not care.

Logan does not have it in him to care.

“Is this about that meeting with Gazebo?” Roman tries, tumbling over his feet to keep pace with Logan. “I thought he said he liked—”

“Yeah, well, he did. And now he doesn’t.”

Logan lets the door slam shut behind him.

And he gets in his car. And he drives. And he drives and drives and drives, and he keeps on driving until all the storms raging in his mind come to a head, a breaking point that guarantees a maelstrom of chaos and hellfire if he doesn’t let it out.

He yanks the steering wheel to the right, pulling off the unfrequented road that he doesn’t remember turning onto. Onto which he doesn’t remember turning. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

And he cuts the engine and he gets out and he slams the door shut and he balls up the bag of the shattered pieces of his mug in his fist and he chucks them far into the dead grass stretching away from the road and he screams. And he screams. And he screams and he screams and he  _ screams, _ his head tilted to the uncaring heavens and his mouth hanging open like a starving beggar in a barren wasteland and his body collapsing to the ground and his knees scraping over the gravel. And still he screams, until no sound dares to even try escaping his throat, save for a hollow whisper, an echo of anguish and rage and despair and resignation.

And he gets back in the car.

And he drives home in silence.

And when he walks in the front door, he knows how ragged he must look, and he knows Virgil can see it. And he knows he’s late, too late for words. And he opens his mouth to explain himself, and Virgil shakes his head. And Logan lifts his arms, desperate for something solid to tether him to reality, desperate for reassurance, desperate for  _ Virgil, _ and Virgil turns away. And Logan sits on the couch as the bedroom door softly clicks shut.

Logan does not sleep that night.


	25. T minus 7 seconds

Logan cracks his knuckles, his elbows propped on the arms of a chair near the middle of the presentation room. Across the table from him, Joy doodles absently in the margins of her notebook. Logan is pretty sure that if Cassidy weren’t there to subtly turn the page for her, the flowers and floating eyes would crawl off the pages and etch themselves into the surface of the table. Director Gazebo paces at the head of the room, smacking a remote against his palm and muttering under his breath. It’s been something like five minutes since he last successfully switched slides, and all delusions of focus and interest have completely melted away. Even Miss Katie-Lee, who  _ was _ helping hand out papers and fill in pieces of information for the director, is playing something on her phone with vague disinterest. Logan wonders whether she might just fall asleep right where she stands.

Logan, on the other hand, absolutely cannot force himself to look disinterested in  _ anything _ the director does, ever. Not with that meeting from a couple weeks ago still weighing on his mind. Instead, he does his best to look like he’s taking detailed notes in his pocket notebook, glancing around the room as if deep in thought. He takes careful stock every few seconds of the impossibly high number of important people in here. The absolutely quintessential ‘who’s who’ of this branch—Joy and Miss Katie-Lee, of course, but also Mx. Oatmeal, Cassidy and her independent focus advisor, the directors of the individual satellite branches floating nearby, those inexplicable people in nice suits that follow Director Gazebo everywhere, even the notoriously good-looking folks that are always sweeping in and out of Miss Katie-Lee’s office. Oh, and who could forget Roman?

Logan could.

Logan would love to do that, in fact.

He’s taken multiple steps to prove to the director just how much he wants this, despite how  _ wrong _ it feels to be slacking off to improve—talking about non-work things with Cassidy and Alex, getting to know the fifth floor interns (even though they aren’t technically on the fifth floor anymore), helping those same interns with their work and genuinely enjoying it rather than it being revision out of obligation, even trying to be more open with Virgil about what’s going on inside his head. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of that last one yet, but it’s not like the director ever sees him do it—or not do it, as the case usually tends to be. He tries, though. They both do.

The biggest risk—talking to Roman—is one he really isn’t looking forward to. He hasn’t even tried yet, actually. Probably explains why Roman is in the far back corner of the room, whispering with Alex.

Logan isn’t doing very well at pretending to be taking notes, in case that wasn’t obvious.

Finally, the remote in the director’s hand buzzes to life, shuffling the presentation to the last slide. Miss Katie-Lee moves next to him and peers over his shoulder, pointing at one of the buttons and nodding. A sigh of relief (or maybe it’s annoyance—Logan isn’t great at gauging that sort of thing) ripples through the room when the slideshow cycles back to the top, displaying a picture of a rocket preparing to launch.

The director gives Miss Katie-Lee a smile and nod before turning to address the room. “What craft was this?”

Logan doesn’t bother raising his hand, merely calling out the name in unison with the rest of the room. “Vanguard TV3.”

“And on what historic date did this craft fail two seconds after launch?”

“December sixth, nineteen fifty-seven.” It’s more of an automatic response on Logan’s part than a concentrated effort to access the trivia from its overflowing file tucked away in a secure corner of his mind. The director nods his approval and moves on to the next slide, and Logan is pretty sure the better part of his room-sweeping gaze centers on him. He sits up straighter.

“Good start, folks. Now, back to basics—roughly how long would it take for a spacecraft to reach the moon?” Wow,  _ really _ back to basics. He wasn’t kidding.

“Three days.” Even Logan has to admit, it does sound just the slightest bit creepy, everyone answering in monotonous unison like this.

The director clicks over to the next slide, which proudly declares the words ‘speed round’ in times new roman. The font yanks Logan’s thoughts toward Roman without his consent, and he again thinks about how unjustly cold he’s been to the guy lately. Hardly a word between them, aside from the usual obligatory greetings. Maybe that ought to be his next risk, resolving that whole situation. Certainly one of the more unnerving ideas he’s entertained.

“Alright, everyone, speed round time. How many miles to the moon?”

“240,000.”

“In kilometers?”

The briefest of pauses. “386,400.”

“Largest crew aboard a spacecraft to date?”

“Eight.”

“Why do we want to minimize travel time for human astronauts?”

“Space has harmful radiation.” Okay, so that one wasn’t quite so perfectly in unison, and various other answers tried to break through, but the general idea does manage to echo around the room.

“Of the nearly two hundred planet-orbiting moons in our solar system, in which place is our moon with regards to size?”

“Fifth largest.”

“Latin word for its highlands?”

“Maria.”

“Meaning?”

“Seas.”

“How many nations have landed on the moon?”

“Three.” The word  _ five _ also bounces around, but Logan is in the former party.

“Okay, who did it first?”

“The United States.” This, too, has a second answer making a valiant effort—Neil Armstrong, obviously. Again, Logan is in the former group.

“When?”

This one, interestingly enough, prompts two  _ very _ distinct answers. One sizeable group, to which Logan is party, gives the predictable answer of July twentieth, nineteen sixty-nine, but one (much smaller) group says something incredibly different.

“Wow, I didn’t realize this very important meeting was just gonna be a history lesson.”

Not a valid nor correct answer, in case that wasn’t clear.

Logan, along with pretty much every other superior in the room, swivels in his seat to stare at Roman, who still leans against the wall at the far back of the room. Beside him, Alex looks like they’re doing everything they can to feign not having heard him.

Roman shrugs and raises his eyebrows, tilting his head toward the director. “It’s a valid question. Nobody in this room’s an idiot, we all passed our college courses, gen eds and otherwise, we all took the entrance exams, we’ve all done the work to get here. Not to step out of line or anything, but this is all grade school stuff. Seems kinda dumb to be quizzing us on stuff anyone with a working internet connection could figure out.”

Logan debates whether this would be a good time to work on one of those risks he’s been dealing with by striding to the back of the room and smacking Roman across the face. The director stiffens, but Logan can’t tell whether it’s agitation or impressed satisfaction.

“Does anyone else agree with Roman’s perspective?”

There’s a few quiet mumbles and the odd cough or sniffle, but no one speaks up. Logan flinches when the director’s eyes land on him, but again, there’s something behind those eyes he can’t trace. When the director doesn’t look away, the idea of screaming crosses Logan’s mind.  _ Risk. Risk. You are not special simply for doing your job. You need to go above and beyond if you want to achieve the dream you claim you have, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary. _

Logan clears his throat and raises his hand, and honest to god, the room falls silent. Even Joy’s scribbling pen halts. The director nods at him to speak, at the same moment that Logan finds his heart standing at the edge of a bottomless pit. It jumps over.

“He makes a good point.” The director lifts his chin, but says nothing. “We already know all of this information, given how easily we can answer it on a dime, and you’ve gathered up most of the higher profile people in this branch, not to mention the ones around it. It seems counterintuitive to waste their time with the basics when they could be working toward something more concrete, rather than an eighth grade science test review.” Logan literally bites his tongue when he closes his mouth, belatedly realizing he just told the literal head of his career that his meeting is a waste of Logan’s time. Too big of a risk, perhaps, but there’s certainly no taking it back now. He also belatedly realizes his arm is still in the air, so he yanks it down with his other hand.

There’s a beat of silence, where not even Joy dares look at Logan. Logan swallows and turns his eyes toward the ground, feeling Roman’s gaze burning daggers into his back. Does this count toward resolving the little spat he never bothered explaining to Roman? Hell, Roman might not even know Logan  _ was _ mad—for all he’s been told, Logan just decided out of nowhere to start talking to the interns. Logan should’ve just kept with the mediocrity, should’ve stayed within arm’s reach of his safety net, should’ve learned to grit his teeth and bear it while Roman prattled on, completely oblivious to how much better he was than Logan.

“Roman and Logan,” the director finally says. “You two stay. Everyone else, you’re excused.”

The remaining people cannot possibly get out of the room fast enough. It’s concentrated chaos as they scramble to gather their respective belongings and rush the door, a bunch of space enthusiasts who would probably rather be on literal Neptune right now than in this room. Come to think of it, Neptune doesn’t sound too bad to Logan, either. He sinks back into his chair and wills himself to be smaller, wills Roman to ignore him and just stay—

Roman takes the seat directly beside Logan. “Thanks for the assist,” he says under his breath, elbowing Logan gently. Logan smiles weakly at his own fists, clenched tightly in his lap, and wonders if this is the last time these hands will be employed by NASA. Wondering if this is finally it, if the director has had enough of Logan’s pathetic attempts to take risks, has finally decided to do away with Logan entirely, to let him fade into obscurity as some guy who coded a coffee delivery app with a gimmicky name.

Director Gazebo stares long and hard at the both of them, and probably has been for a while now—not that Logan would know the difference, having only just looked up from his hands. There’s something behind the mask of calm in the director’s face, just like there always is, and just like always, it’s something Logan can’t quite comprehend, something he isn’t sure he  _ wants _ to comprehend. When he opens his mouth, Logan’s heart finally finds itself at the bottom of that bottomless pit.

“Are either of you aware of how long it would take mankind to reach Neptune?”

An unexpected starting point, to be sure, but at least it’s something Logan is prepared for. “It took Voyager 2 about twelve years in the eighties.”

“Voyager 2 was unmanned,” Roman adds. “None of that extra weight for people or provisions, so that probably maybe definitely influenced that time.”

“Why?” Logan asks. It’s always been one of his favorite questions, to tell the truth. He wonders whether the director feels the same. Then he wonders whether the director realizes he means ‘why ask about Neptune,’ not ‘why would weight influence travel time.’ Then he wonders whether the director knows he wonders this.

“As only Voyager 2 has managed to make it that far—and beyond, in fact—there is still a good deal of things we’ve yet to learn from Neptune, like why it has such high winds, or why its magnetic field is offset, not to mention that there’s been another Great Dark Spot since the one in eighty-nine.” Okay, so at least it was clear what Logan was asking.

“I’m still not totally clear on why this matters,” Roman admits. Logan sighs quietly, relieved that someone in this room had the nerve to voice the general fears floating lazily through the air. “I mean, it’s got nothing to do with the moon, which is supposedly why you called the meeting, right?”

“It’s got  _ everything _ to do with the moon,” the director corrects. He steps away from the projection screen and begins pacing the room, waving his hands about like frantic hummingbirds to emphasize his points—provided he actually makes any. “The moon is the closest celestial body to our planet, so everything with a greater distance than that can be expanded upon based on its relative distance and size compared to the moon. If we learned to walk with the moon, we can run with Mars, and we could  _ fly _ with Neptune.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Logan says, feeling like it’s been a little too long since he’s spoken up. Regardless, his words seem to roll off the director’s hunched shoulders as he continues pacing, unperturbed.

“Twelve years is a long time, not to mention the additional weight for the food and crew, and the emotional and mental tolls on the passengers and their families, as it would be a minimum twenty-five year round trip—that’s a quarter of what a layman considers his life span. But if we could cut that down, shave off a few years from either end, move from  _ here to there _ as if we were taking but a single step…” The director trails off with his hands frozen in front of his face, fingers not quite touching, so stiff they almost tremble. “Imagine how much we could gain from that. Just—just  _ imagine _ it.”

“Do you mean in terms of Einstein’s and Rosen’s theory of general relativity?” Logan’s voice is laced with disbelief. Einstein-Rosen bridges, wormholes, whatever you want to call them, it’s all theoretical, and all just the slightest bit terrifying. Two mouths at either end of an imaginary throat, from point A to point B in moments, microscopic and unstable.  _ Just imagine it? _ Sure, just imagine the likelihood of the wormhole destabilising under the effect of exotic matters and spitting out the passengers to who knows where.

Logan, if you couldn’t tell, is not particularly fond of the idea of wormholes, much less black holes. His concerns are usually (to his relief) unfounded, since whoever is crazy enough to look for wormholes hasn’t been successful in their endeavours. Not yet.

“But that’s only assuming you actually  _ can _ fold the space,” Roman protests, yanking Logan out of his own mind. Apparently they didn’t care to wait for Logan to process the absurdity of it all before continuing the conversation.

“But who says we  _ can’t? _ ” Director Gazebo shoots back.

“Who said anything about  _ we?” _ Roman’s voice is incredulous and maybe, just maybe, a little bit excited. Good excited or bad excited, though, Logan has no idea.

“Well, me, just now, for one.” The director starts pacing again, ticking off numbers on his fingers as he goes. “Katie-Lee also vouched for the idea, as well as some of the directors at the floater branches—most of them report to Kennedy, anyway, so I’m sitting pretty high and dry here, and they all went for the idea. Logan, any valuable input here?”

Logan blinks, not prepared to be included. Not yet. “I, um, no?” Then he wonders whether the director heard ‘I, um, no,’ or ‘I, um, know.’

“Well, you can hardly fault me for asking. I mean, after that presentation you gave, not to mention the increasing quality of your work lately, I assumed you’d be desperate to make your case for this mission.”

“What mission?”

Roman shoots Logan a look, and Logan wonders just how long he was tuned out of the conversation. Too long, apparently.

“Why, Mission Neptune, of course.” At that, Logan is viscerally reminded of the conductor from that time Virgil forced him to watch  _ The Polar Express. _ The director, at least, doesn’t seem put off in the slightest by Logan’s mental absence. He whips out a pen and scrawls something on his forearm, mumbling under his breath, “We really need to come up with a better name for that.”

“I—you’re planning a mission to  _ Neptune?” _ It’s not even worth it for Logan to try to keep the shock out of his voice.

Roman, miracle of miracles, recovers much quicker than Logan. Probably because he’s been paying attention. “Okay, cool, but why did you still say  _ we? _ Why did you only keep me and Logan behind?”

“Logan and me,” Logan murmurs. At least if his basic conversational skills continue to fail him, he’ll always have ironclad grammar to fall back on. On which to fall back, whatever.

“You want to go into space, do you not?”

“Absolutely.” In sharp contrast with Logan’s immediacy and certainty is Roman’s loud silence. Logan gives him a quizzical look.

“I’m not saying I don’t,” Roman finally huffs, “but I’m not saying I do, either. There’s way too many things that could go wrong for this to be a spur of the moment  _ hell yes _ type response, y’know?”

Logan tries very hard (by which he means a normal amount) not to look smug as the director stares at Roman in shock. So much for a guy who’s great because he broadens his horizons. As soon as the prideful thought crosses Logan’s mind, he shakes his head to get rid of it—tearing down his friend won’t do anything for his own career, much less his own humanity. Another, much scarier thought crosses Logan’s mind next: He just internally referred to Roman as his friend.

Logan really ought to start paying better attention when conversations are happening around him between very smart people who don’t think to wait for him to catch up.

“Just keep an eye on your inboxes, alright?” The director stops pacing at the door and tugs it open, gesturing for the two to take their leave.

“Give us a minute,” Roman says, remaining firmly in his seat. The director purses his lips and wrinkles his nose, but he does go, leaving the room blissfully empty in the absence of his commanding presence.

Roman turns to Logan and cocks his head to the side. “Alright, my dude, I’ve known you for basically a lifetime now.”

“Five years, max.”

“Same difference. Anyway, I’ve known you a while, yeah? So I know what your face looks like when you’re zoning out, ’cause you’ve got way too much going on up in that head of yours. How much do I need to fill you in on, so you aren’t totally out of your depth when Gazebo brings it up again?”

“A basic rundown would be stellar. I heard that he’s aiming for Neptune, and he’s trying to employ some  _ Wrinkle in Time _ mechanics to do it. We haven’t even  _ spotted _ a wormhole yet, Roman. Those things are so  _ small, _ too, what is he thinking?”

“Probably that he should’ve had Katie-Lee give that promotion to someone who knows how to listen.” Roman laughs as he ducks to avoid Logan swatting at his head. “Hey, hey, this is neutral territory! Anyway, he said he was stuck on the moon stuff with his presentation ’cause he doesn’t want to go talking to the whole building and company and all about it, but he thinks he found a way to straight up manufacture a wormhole, and he wants to test that with an outwardly routine trip to the moon. Manufacture his demon wormhole or whatever, and if it works, great, and if not, well, it’s just the moon, so we won’t be too far, anyway. Doesn’t really add up that he’d call it Mission Neptune if he’s trying to hide it, but whatever.”

“And he told us this why?”

“Because I’m such a motor mouth that most people have learned to just tune me out by now, or assume I’m spouting total nonsense. You, on the other hand, he knows you’ve got your whole deal with that lifelong dream of getting off the planet or whatever, so obviously you wouldn’t go spreading the details, not at the risk of someone else taking your spot on the ship.”

“He told you all that?”

“Context clues. I’m  _ very _ smart.”

Logan blows a puff of air through his nose and stares at his hands again, picturing them at the helm of a literal console in a literal rocketship on its way to literal Neptune. “Be pretty hard to cover up supplies for a mission to Neptune when you want it to look like a routine trip to the moon.”

“Why else would he hint at sending follow-up emails? Not to mention, if the wormhole situation shortens the trip, we wouldn’t need much more than a normal moon mission, anyway.” Roman scoots his chair closer and pushes his face right up into Logan’s. “You’re really off your game today, y’know that? Is it ’cause you suddenly decided to start talking to me again?”

“Something like that.” Logan checks his watch, weighing the merits of continuing to talk here versus returning to their desks. If nothing else, the director hasn’t returned to yell at them yet, so that’s something. Logan inhales a couple seconds longer than he needs to, blows it all out in one big breath, and explains to Roman the situation regarding his new risk-taking self. He even adds how, all along, Roman has been the true superior, much as it shreds Logan’s heart to say it. At least now Roman has proof that he’s as good as he thinks he is. What use is pride if left uncorroborated, right?

“Okay, well that’s dumb, so we’re not gonna talk about that nonsense garbage ever again,” Roman says, shaking his head. “I mean, really?  _ Me _ better than  _ you? _ Obviously I’m just socializing, and that definitely shows in the few papers where I’ve actually tried. He probably just wanted to push you over the edge so you would be more involved and engaged, more likely to help with his whole Neptune shebang.”

“That’s a good mission name,” Logan mumbles. He expertly ignores everything else Roman said. “Neptune Shebang.”

“No, it really isn’t. Do you even  _ want _ to do it?”

“I mean, obviously I do, it’s all I’ve ever wanted,  _ ever _ , but there’s still…” Logan lets his voice trail off, picturing Virgil’s face. Picturing Virgil sat on the couch in front of the television, watching Logan blast off the planet in a storm of fire and gasoline, leaving Virgil over two billion miles behind him, in the plain old Earth dust. “I don’t know. I used to know, but I think what I knew changed somewhere along the way.”

“Makes sense.” Roman pushes his hands against his knees and bounces to his feet, then crooks his elbow to the side. Logan accepts the gesture, rising with Roman’s assistance and following him to the door. “I mean, it’s not like you have to know if you’re going right this second. You don’t even know if you’ll get chosen for it. Maybe they switch around the requirements or knock down the capacity or something, and they just bump you out of the running because you’re needed on Earth or they’re afraid you have the measles or something. Hell, they could deny the mission request altogether. Whatever happens, you definitely don’t have to make any major decisions about it just yet.”

Logan nods to himself as the door clicks shut behind them. Eventually, he very well have to make that choice. But not yet.


	26. T minus 6 seconds

Logan sits on the couch, watching events unfold on the screen in front of him and seeing none of it. The pictures race by in a blur, far too much and far too fast for him to process, so he instead focuses on the low soundtrack underscoring the feeling of Virgil’s hair between his fingers. Even when he glances down, seeing Virgil’s head resting peacefully in his lap, seeing his fingers knitting through faintly purple locks, he doesn’t  _ see _ it, not really.

He twines a longer strand around his index finger, feeling the slack, feeling it cut into his circulation, just feeling it, not seeing it. Allowing himself to revel in the scene for a moment longer, two, Logan turns his focus to the slow, relaxed sounds of Virgil’s breathing, unhampered by anything to do with work or money or anything outside this room.

It’s been so long—so, so long—since they were able to simply exist like this, and Logan finds his brain kicking itself for not taking advantage of the apartment’s escape sooner. It was only that one night he spent on the couch, one night filled with awful screams and aching silence, but it was easily the worst of all their years together. The very next day—the very same morning, actually, barely past the feeble dawn—Logan opened his eyes to Virgil sitting at the other end of the couch, a blanket stretched between them.

_ Logan woke with a start, trails of cold sweat beading a twisted forest of broken tree branches down his back. He pressed a clawed hand to his chest, desperate to convince himself of the heart still beating there. There’s no telling why, exactly, but he was flat out terrified there was nothing there, that it was an empty husk and he had to find that missing piece that would keep him alive. _

_ He turned his head, and in the same instant that he felt the reassuring thump of life under his hands, he locked eyes with Virgil. _

_ His breathing stuttered, one sharp exhale, two ragged gasps, as he raked his eyes over Virgil’s silhouette, as his mind grappled with the fact that that was Virgil right there, not a figment of his imagination. Something solid, something concrete, something asleep, and something certainly not expecting what came next. _

_ Logan launched himself across the couch, throwing the blanket aside and burying his face in Virgil’s chest. Virgil jolted awake, his arms flying to the sides, and Logan seized the opportunity to tuck in closer, pressing his ear to Virgil’s chest, wrapping his arms around Virgil’s torso, begging his mind to hear Virgil’s heartbeat, begging his head to feel it. _

_ To Logan’s relief, he felt Virgil’s breathing pick up and steady beneath him. Virgil’s arms slowly, so slowly, so  _ achingly, terribly, awfully slowly _ came down to rest on Logan’s back, holding him so, so close, digging his nails into the fabric pulled taut over Logan’s skin. _

_ “I got you,” Virgil mumbled, his low voice reverberating through Logan’s head. “I got you, I got you, it’s okay, I got you.” _

_ Logan melted into the feeling of Virgil’s chin digging into the back of his head, his breath slowing, his heart beating, beating, beating, keeping him alive to the rhythm of Virgil rubbing circles on his back. Staring at his knees, curled up under him and pressed against the sides of Virgil’s legs, Logan opened his mouth and spilled everything. The impromptu meeting, how the director preferred Roman over him, how he’s not good enough, how he never was, could never  _ hope _ to be good enough, how he couldn’t even keep a single stupid mug in one piece and that one thing was enough to shatter him like thin ceramic, to break him and beat him down until he found himself screaming in the dirt at the side of an empty and forgotten road and he came home and even  _ Virgil _ knew Logan wasn’t good enough for him and— _

_ “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, I got you, I’m here, I’ll never do anything like that to you again.” Virgil’s voice was a mere whisper, soft and careful and so, so real. Logan shuddered out another breath, shaking his head. “None of that stuff you’re worried about is true. You know that, right?” _

_ “I don’t, I don’t, I don’t know anything and the director knows it, everyone knows it, everyone except  _ me _ because I let my guard down and  _ felt _ something for once with you and everything fell apart the second I let myself—” _

_ “Logan, you’re allowed to have feelings.” Virgil pulled away, and Logan felt a piece of himself crumble in the face of the growing distance between them. His teeth ground together as he winced at the pain dragging over his skin. “I know you like having your whole facade of coldness, but I didn’t marry you because I thought you’d never get upset at something like  _ Parks and Rec _ again. I’ve seen you laugh, I’ve seen you cry, I’ve seen you allow yourself to dare to  _ exist, _ and I’d do anything for you to know that that’s  _ okay.”

_ “I—I—” Logan couldn’t find the words, instead pressing himself against Virgil’s outstretched hands. Virgil relaxed his arms, letting Logan hide his face in his chest again, holding him in a loose hug. _

_ “It’s okay, I got you,” Virgil said again, a mantra that echoed through Logan’s entire body. Logan just kept shaking his head, holding back the tears that demanded to be released because he can’t, he  _ can’t, _ he just  _ cannot _ be so imperfect, not even in front of Virgil, not when Virgil is the one person he’s turned away from more times than he can remember. “I got you.” _

Now, Logan tangles his fingers deeper in Virgil’s hair, wondering whether he should be relieved or concerned that Virgil hasn’t brought up that night again. His mind drifts to the discussion of the new mission and his hands still, Virgil’s hair caught like a vice in his grip.

Virgil mumbles a soft protest under his breath, shifting his head slightly as he wakes up. “Hey, babe, what’s wrong?”

Logan shakes his head and wills his fingers to loosen, to stop treating Virgil’s hair like stubborn bubble wrap. “I, um—there was a meeting at work today. About the moon, kind of. Also about Neptune.”

“You’re gonna have to give me some more than that, hon. I’m not a mind reader.”

“Director Gazebo—highest position guy at our branch—he wants to send a team of people through some wormhole he thinks he can create. To, um, to another planet. Twenty-five year round trip otherwise.”

“Details, babe. I’m not really up on all the wormhole space details.”

“Right, right, sorry. It’s, well, it’s not important with  _ how _ it’s supposed to work, but, um, he wants to start up a mission to go to Neptune.”

Virgil sits up at this. “Neptune? That’s, like, super far, isn’t it?”

“ _ Very _ super far.”

“And you’re going?”

“Well, there’s nothing concrete yet, and the mission hasn’t actually been approved—or even proposed, for that matter, he only told Roman and me, but—”

“Do you  _ want _ to go?”

Logan bites his tongue and clears his throat, not quite sure how to answer that. Virgil’s eyes are suddenly much harder to look at than the screen filled with characters worried about some monster of the week.

“Logan. Do you want to go on that mission?”

“Even if it goes through, the wormhole would probably fail, and it would just spit us out—well, not  _ us, _ just whoever the crew is—but it would spit out the crew on a path to the moon if it fails, so it’s not like—”

“Do you want to go on that mission?”

“I haven’t even been offered—”

“Logan.” Logan never knew Virgil’s voice could simultaneously sound so soft and so pissed. “Just tell me the truth. Do you want to go on that mission?”

“I don’t know.”

“Logan.”

“I don’t!” Logan holds up his hands defensively, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I want to or not. There’s way too many factors to consider, and I genuinely do not know. It’d be great, but there is absolutely no way I’d make that kind of decision without talking to you first.”

Virgil makes a low noise at the back of his throat, but doesn’t press the question any further. He instead butts his head into Logan’s chest, much like a cat too shy to look at you when it wants attention. Logan smiles softly and leans down to press a kiss to Virgil’s forehead.

“Promise?”

Logan exhales and nods. “Promise. But, you know, I do have to leave the planet eventually.”

“Oh? And why might that be?”

“How else do you expect me to bring you the moon?”

Virgil shakes his head, his hair tickling Logan’s neck. “I suppose I can give you a pass this one time, Sanders, but don’t go forgetting that my price of the stars still stands.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”


	27. T minus 5 seconds

Logan slings off his jacket (the old one that Virgil called ‘an insult to space nerds everywhere,’ to be precise) and hangs it on the coat rack, toeing the door shut behind him. On his way to the kitchen table with his arms weighed down by his binders from work, he nods a greeting to Virgil puttering about with the keurig.

“Sorry I’m late,” Logan says, slumping into his chair. “Miss Katie-Lee had me helping her out today since Joy is out with strep throat again, and every other assignment involved Mx. Oatmeal, and they insisted on leaving the building every five minutes for ‘external research,’ but I’m pretty sure they just wanted to bum a few bucks off the secretary—I think his name’s Anderson, actually. Once I got all of Miss Katie-Lee’s bonus work done, I still had to deal with my assignments, and Roman kept hassling me about how long it’s been since the director passed along an email about Mission Neptune, and traffic was an absolute  _ disaster _ , since there was an accident on that intersection by the lesser Kroger.” Logan licks his lips and pushes his stack of papers farther away. “I’ve actually still got way more work to get done, but I was already running late, and I don’t love how much it keeps me away from you.”

Virgil hums into his mug, closing his eyes as a cloud of steam curls up around his head.

“So, how about yourself? Do anything fun today?”

“Not really.”

Logan hesitates, unsure whether there’s any more coming. Virgil takes a long sip from his mug and lowers the cup, but says nothing. Logan sighs. “That’s it?”

“I mean, I went to the museum—Patton says hi, by the way—did a couple jumbo tours for the usual extra credit gangs, popped off a few nearby fetch quests—you would not  _ believe _ how complicated some of those orders can get—and now I’m here.”

“And that’s it?”

“And that’s it. What more do you want?”

“You didn’t, like, talk to anyone? Hang out longer at the museum for the fun of it? Make new friends?”

Virgil laughs, going so far as to actually knock his head back and cackle at the ceiling.

“Is the notion really so absurd?”

“What, that a grown adult man would randomly go out and make friends for no reason? A little bit, yeah.”

Logan buries his face in his hands and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing harder and harder until he sees stars. “There have been countless studies done proving that social isolationism isn’t good for your mental health. It doesn’t have to be this big ‘be my friend’ production. Just strike up a conversation with some museum goer or fetch quest recipient. Say hello, ask how their day’s going, just have a friendly little chat.”

Virgil pauses on his way from the sputtering keurig to the table, instead placing Logan’s fresh mug on the countertop. “I talk to people. I’m not a total isolationist, you know. You and Patton and Ariel and Morgan and Roman all talk to me. I mean, heck, I see Patton, like, two times a week. That’s over a hundred times a year.”

“You need to talk to  _ more _ people than just me and Patton and Roman—er, them and me. Like, people outside the ones you see at—” Logan hesitates, unsure whether he likes where this sentence is going. He continues anyway. “Outside of people you see at, erm,  _ work. _ Outside office hours, I mean. So to speak.”

Virgil scoffs, swirling around the contents of his cup. “Oh, please, like  _ you’re _ one to talk.”

“Excuse me?” Logan can almost taste the disbelief staining his lips.

“With you, it’s  _ always _ office hours. You’re  _ always _ working. There’s no ‘outside office hours’ with you, and I would hardly call ‘helping the coworkers you look down on as being incompetent’ socializing. You’re doing it out of obligation, because you want to prove your worth to a director that wants to send you on a  _ death mission. _ Or, oh, that’s right, you haven’t been picked yet, have you? Still not risky enough for him? Guess that’s why you’re  _ always. Working.” _

Though he would never admit as much out loud, hearing Virgil rag on his attempts to take risks stings like a gaping wound across his chest. Logan clears his throat, hoping it will mask the surprised choking sound he makes. “Well, pardon me if I actually dare to have a  _ passion _ for something.”

“Oh, and I don’t?”

Now it’s Logan’s turn to scoff, which he does with far more bravado than is appropriate. “I would hardly call ‘you sitting at home and thinking about other people’s gallery art without  _ doing _ anything with it’ a passion.”

“Well, maybe that’s just my way of holding office hours, since you’re so desperate to insist I don’t actually  _ have _ any of those.”

“Well, maybe your office is imaginary, and you need to learn how to be a functional adult that can support himself with an actual social circle larger than the three friends and two ancillary acquaintances who have the misguided audacity to care about your well-being.”

“Well, maybe I was going  _ just fine _ on my own before we met, and before you started this relationship assuming I’d change my entire lifestyle to fit  _ your _ idea of perfection.”

“Well, maybe I should just  _ leave _ then!”

_ “Maybe you should!” _

Logan recoils as sharply as if Virgil slapped him. An awful silence follows, a horrible, aching silence that explodes through Logan’s head, pulsing against his skull and drenching him in an ocean of nauseating emptiness. He blinks once, twice, too many times, faster and faster and faster, all too aware of how weak he must look to Virgil, who can undoubtedly see all of this happening, undoubtedly knows exactly how much what he just said scalds Logan to his very core.

Virgil reaches out a hesitant hand, like he expects Logan to rocket through the ceiling and his grip is the only thing that could anchor him to the planet. “I didn’t mean that.”

So many things pass through Logan’s head— _ yes you did, you wouldn’t have said it otherwise, you’ve thought it for years now, it was just a matter of time before you took a sledgehammer to the dam of tissue paper that stands between us _ —but it’s all compounded to be so much worse because now he knows it’s all  _ true. _

“I, um, I think I forgot some papers at work,” Logan mumbles weakly. He moves slowly to straighten, quicker to stand, faster to walk, faster faster faster to bolt out the door and to the sidewalk where he can sit in silence and feel the ache of it all pulling his shoulders toward the center of the Earth. So desperate is he to get out of the building that he doesn’t notice Virgil feebly stretching an arm toward his fleeing silhouette, Logan’s name on his lips.


	28. T minus 4 seconds

Logan scowls into his hands, tracing his eyes over the web of lines exploding across his palms. A world of mazes in which he’s determined to lose himself, if only so he can avoid eye contact with Virgil for that much longer. The air between them is frozen, frigid, fraught with all the words neither of them want to say. Well, not  _ all _ the words. Virgil certainly seems keen to air out a few of his own.

“Are you kidding me? Now you’ve decided I have to go to college? Do you really think  _ that _ little of my career? Or, no, wait, that’s right, you don’t think I should be allowed to call it a career. My bad.”

Logan balls his hands into fists and shakes his head, wondering whether he’d be allowed to explode again. It’s always Virgil that gets to be the emotional one, after all, so there’s no telling whether Logan would have to be the one to apologize for having the audacity to be emotional. Again.  _ Stop being such a baby and grow up, _ Logan tells himself, the weight of his words smacking him in the face. He opens his mouth to explain to Virgil why he needs to think more rationally about this, but as it turns out, Virgil isn’t finished yet.

“You know, just because  _ you _ found success by pursuing higher education doesn’t mean  _ everyone _ has to. Patton dropped out in his second year and he’s doing  _ fine. _ And don’t you  _ dare _ bring Ariel into this, because she’s the exception to the rule. She’s going for her masters because she wants to set a good example for Morgan, who’s only being raised well because Patton isn’t toiling away in a school he doesn’t care about with money he doesn’t have. And don’t you  _ dare _ talk to me about how college sets a good example for others, because I do not want to hear it.”

Resisting the urge to throw his own body across the room like a ragdoll, Logan takes a long, slow breath. “Are you quite done? All I said was that we got some pamphlets from the local community college, and I thought you might take a look at them.”

“Exactly! Because it’s only good enough that I should just—”

“Because you’re a smart guy, Virgil,” Logan interrupts. This seems to give Virgil pause as he paces around in the kitchen, doing a spectacular job of blocking any possible path from Logan’s current position on the couch to the keurig. “You need to do something with those smarts, or people are going to walk all over you.”

“What, people like you?”

“Name one time I have walked all over you.”

“I—when you—what about that time—oh, just shut up. You can’t put me on the spot with that crap.” Logan has long since given up on watching Virgil fret about this college thing (that isn’t even really a  _ thing _ ), but it’s a pretty safe bet that his arms are in the air and his eyebrows are furrowed. “Plus, like, even if I  _ did _ go to college—which I’m not saying I will! But even if I tried, it’s not like I’d get in. I’ve been out for way too long, they probably wouldn’t even take me. Where would I even get my transcripts? And anyway, you said yourself that everyone already walks all over me, so I shouldn’t bother.”

“Alright, well, first off, stop twisting my words, as it’s one of the few things you can do to appear unbecoming. Second, it’s a community college. I’m not sure that it’s even possible not to get in. Seriously, I’m pretty sure you just sign up and start taking classes, no entry bars or anything. Third, it’s always worth a shot.”

Finally done with his pacing, Virgil plops down on the far end of the couch and throws his head against the back. “It’s just—what would I even do with a degree? It costs, like, a metric buttload to get a degree in the first place, and that’s all time that I wouldn’t be getting tips at the museum.  _ If _ I considered going, and  _ if _ I even stuck around long enough to get a degree.”

“You only work at that museum twice a week, three times on good weeks, and you can still do fetch quests on the side. I make enough that I could help you through it, and once you  _ have _ the degree—when, not if, it is a very sincere  _ when _ —but  _ when _ you have the degree, a good few companies are going to offer you a higher starting pay, or at the very least, you’ll have some more serious options that can pay more than an unofficial tour guide gets under the counter.” Logan glances at Virgil just in time to see him chuck one of the pamphlets at his head. “Hey, I’m just trying to help!”

“You’re just trying to change everything about me to suit your idea of perfection.”

“I didn’t—nothing I said had anything to do with—are we really getting stuck on this ferris wheel again?” There’s bitterness on Logan’s tongue, too much bitterness, enough that he can taste the venom in his words as they come out, but he can’t push them down. He  _ won’t _ push them down, actually, not this time. “Nothing I’ve ever done has been because I don’t think you’re perfect. It’s actually because I  _ know _ you’re perfect, and I want to help  _ you _ see that. There’s so much more you could be doing, so much more you  _ deserve _ to be doing, and you just refuse to even consider it because you’re happy with the level you’re at right now. You never want to improve yourself, and you’re so adamant about ignoring that that you never realize how  _ easy _ it would be for you if you would just  _ try.” _

Virgil scowls, an agitated groan coming from the back of his throat. “Okay,  _ Mom, _ you can drop the whole ‘proud of you’ lecture. I appreciate the compliment sandwich you just tried to force feed me, but I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“You never want to hear it, though. You never have.” The conversation feels achingly similar to when Patton told the both of them off in the cafe, and Logan wonders whether this one will spiral just as quickly. “You always say—”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Yeah, that. You never want to talk about it, but we really need to—”

“That’s not fair to me. I don’t want to talk about it now, or maybe ever, so we shouldn’t have to.”

“And you always play that same fairness card, but only if it benefits—”

“Oh, because you running away and hiding at work because you’re afraid to admit that you aren’t infallible doesn’t benefit you?”

“I’ve only gone back to work, like, twice, as compared to your—”

“As if twice doesn’t count as a pattern that you’re always free to abuse, because you  _ always _ stay late to avoid hashing out why you—”

_ “Just shut up and let me talk for once!” _ Logan’s shout echoes through the suddenly cramped apartment, a hollow thud of sharp consonants that hammers at his ears. Virgil stares at him, a mixture of shock and fury boiling just beneath the surface of his face.

Logan exhales, willing some semblance of calm back into his voice. “It is a talk that we need to have, because I do not agree with the lifestyle you’ve chosen, and you do not agree with the lifestyle I  _ want _ to have. This has been a problem since long before we got married, and you not listening then means that we have no choice but to do this now. There is a dissension between us, and it only grows every time we refuse to communicate with each other. So for once, just for this one time, I need you to be  _ quiet, _ and I need you to  _ listen _ to me, and I need you to  _ hear _ the words I’m saying.” Virgil inclines his chin but says nothing, and Logan finds himself much more nervous now than he was before his presentation for the director.

“There’s not—there’s no harm in trying. You need to—you  _ should _ try new things, because it will help you grow as a person, and should anything happen to me or to Patton, or even to Roman, you will need things to fall back on, and you will need  _ people _ to fall back on. We can’t all be there for you every time you have another flash of negative emotions, and I know that sucks to hear, but it’s true, and it’s one of the points you always call me out on for being unfair. In that same vein, you need to stop crying ‘unfair’ every time you’re mad at me. Just because something is fair to you, that doesn’t mean it’s fair to everyone else involved. If you’re holding a knife to my chest and I ask you to lift it off and you refuse because it’s too heavy to pick it up, leaving it there is fair to you, but unfair to me. That isn’t how fairness works, that’s not how compromise works, and that’s not how this relationship should work. We’ve been together this long, and I’m sick of toeing the line along our breaking point every time we bump up to a conversation that you’re too stubborn and too scared to have.”

Virgil opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—not a protest, not denial, just silence. Logan closes his eyes, waiting for another shouting match, another slammed door, another night of chasing Virgil around town, another awful shroud of silence, but the only sound to greet his ears is that of rustling paper. He opens his eyes and glances over to see Virgil leafing quickly through one of the pamphlets. Awash in a wave of relief, Logan sighs. And he smiles.


	29. T minus 3 seconds

Logan startles out of his reverie, quickly minimizing the (decidedly-not-work related) tabs on his computer screen as he turns to face whoever just poked him.

Roman.

Oh, joy. This should be fun.

“Whatcha doin’ there, mate?” Roman asks, draping himself over Logan’s shoulder.

“I’m not your mate, pal,” Logan replies. He opens his tabs back up, now secure in knowing it’s not Joy or Katie-Lee snooping on him— _ Miss _ Katie-Lee, he corrects himself.

“I’m not your pal, mate.” Roman grins and points at one of the tabs, tracing his finger along the headline. “Best local community colleges? What, a master’s isn’t good enough for you? Polly wanna get a doctorate, Polly wannna outshine all his free-yahnds?”

“I will pay you literal money to never do that accent again.” Logan clicks away to a less conspicuous screen as an intern skulks by, presumably on their way back from a delivery to Mx. Oatmeal. It’s painfully rare that Logan gets to see anyone new without going out of his way to hunt them down, but that rarity doesn’t mean he isn’t wary of the grapevine running through the honorary fifth floor. “I tried to get Virgil to look into local colleges, see if any interest him at all—for a number of reasons, none of which he was keen to hear, mind you. Anyway, that was a couple weeks ago now, and he hasn’t mentioned it since. I’ve been looking into it on his behalf, and I think he could do pretty well going for an art history degree, since he already likes working those tours at the museum, and—”

“And you’ve just decided all this for him?”

“Well, no, but I know what his interests are, and—”

“And you don’t want to afford him the chance to broaden his horizons?”

And there we go with the horizons again. Will anyone ever let Logan talk for more than five seconds without an interruption? Logan balls his hands into fists under his desk, digging his nails into his palms. He bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to grit out a response without literally snarling.

“Shockingly enough, broadening your horizons isn’t the only motivation for people to have a purpose.” He closes all the tabs and puts his screen to sleep, scowling. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Virgil’s made it pretty damn clear that he’s not interested. I’m just pulling my own leg at this point.”

Roman says nothing, still sprawled across Logan’s shoulders. The silence weighs heavy in the air for a moment, two, before Logan shoves back his chair and cracks his neck, knocking skulls with Roman. “I’m going on my fifteen,” Logan says sharply.

He shoulder-checks Roman as he stands, knocking him back a few feet on his way to the break room. You know, the one cramped with the likes of Miss Katie-Lee and Mr. Jolenta and everyone else who holds sway over whether Logan gets paid enough to keep himself alive. He fights down a growl and slinks toward the back of the room, where only a broken coffeepot dares make a home.

“Hey, Sanders, taking an early break for once? Or a break at all, really.” The owner of the new voice deposits herself at the seat across from Logan, who moves aside the dish of candies to hide his hand playing with his phone under the table. Reaching for a candy, Cassidy grins brightly. “So! How about my promotion, huh? Can’t believe me interpreting Joy’s chicken scratch is what got me noticed.” Logan nods with a faint smile. “What, too important to make conversation? Come on, stop thinking about work, yeah? Breaks are supposed to be fun times!”

“Work is fun.” It’s Logan’s instinctual response—always has been, probably always will be—but the certainty isn’t really there anymore.

“So’s wearing socks that are so small they slip off your heel when you’re running through a rainstorm.” Cassidy cocks her head to the side and smiles wider. “Oh, sorry, thought we were telling lies no one believes.”

“Work is fun.” Logan’s voice sounds even less confident now than it did before, which he hopes Cassidy doesn’t notice with the distraction of Roman taking a seat at his side. Logan is about five seconds away from socking Roman in the arm for intruding on a conversation that wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place, but Roman’s bicep is saved by Miss Katie-Lee striding purposefully across the room. She exchanges some furtive whispers with Roman, too quiet for Logan to hear, as Cassidy picks back up on the conversation that, again, was never supposed to exist to begin with.

“Hey, y’member that moon meeting Gazebo was on about?” she asks, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I heard he was  _ actually _ planning—”

“Cassidy!” Miss Katie-Lee hisses, drawing a sharp line across her throat. “Tsst! Don’t!”

Cassidy blinks and shakes her head, as artless as if she were wiping an etch-a-sketch. “Right. So! How about that coffeepot, right? I mean, it’s been broken for, like,  _ ages, _ wouldn’t a top tech-having organization be able to fix that, or at least replace it or something?”

Logan elects to ignore the suspicious conversation turn and how Cassidy just referred to NASA as a ‘top tech-having organization.’ He writes it off in his head as being a weird social nuance he’s not keyed into, and makes a mental note to ask Virgil about it later. Certainly an easier conversation to have than one about colleges. As if Virgil would ever let him entertain that kind of discussion again.

He furrows his brow at what looks like a fist hovering in front of his face, but it’s just Cassidy snapping her fingers. “Hey, Lo, puh tuh tut? Y’in there? Anything of consequence to contribute to the conversation?”

“I would hardly call it a conversation,” Logan mumbles into the fingers propping up his chin. He stretches behind himself for the countertop and grabs the broken coffeepot, eager to keep busy doing literally anything that will distract him from this inane polite chitchat. The whole point of going on his break was to get away from Roman, and now he’s stuck sitting by two new people  _ as well as _ Roman. He starts unscrewing the main panel on the machine’s upper facade.

“Alright, fair play, fair play. Conversations do normally involve more than one person talking.”

“Thanks for the dictionary update. I’ll call Merriam, you find Webster.”

Cassidy may or may not attempt a response, but Logan neither notices nor cares, too focused on the coffeepot. The only thing to finally draw his attention away from the sputtering machine that definitely  _ didn’t _ just scald his entire left hand is a rapid and insistent smattering on his arm. He glances over to see Roman slapping him gently, his eyes desperate.

“We need to talk,” he grits out, angling his head toward the door. Miss Katie-Lee takes a sudden and hurried leave, acting for all the world as if she hadn’t just been chittering with Roman. “Not in here. But, like,  _ now.” _

“I’m good,” Logan replies at full volume. Cassidy gives him a weird look, which he readily ignores.

“Logan.”

“Is good in here, thank you very much.”

“Logan will get his rear in gear right this second, or Roman will cause him serious bodily harm.”

“Logan is good in here.”

Roman sighs loudly, clearly trying to get the point across that  _ I tried to warn you _ with only a series of nonverbal huffs. Following that, he smacks Logan across the face. Like,  _ hard. _

“What in the f—!”

_ “Now.” _

Logan screws his face up tight and clenches his hands like claws to his skull before shoving his chair back, startling Cassidy. He plasters a manic smile on his face, more baring his teeth than anything else. “Fine. Fine? Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s go talk, jackweed. Fine. Whatever.  _ Fine.” _

“I had to get your attention somehow,” Roman pleads, tripping over his feet to keep up as Logan all but storms out of the room.

“And clearly you’ve gotten it, so what the  _ hell _ do you want to do with it?” Logan steps into the stairwell and barely waits for Roman to clear the doorframe before he slams it shut. “If it’s that important, you can sum it up in fifteen seconds, because that’s how long you have before I go downstairs and report you to HR.”

“What’s with the sudden attitude, sassafras?”

“Feigning memory loss at your physical assault on me? An unorthodox way to spend your first two seconds, I’ll admit. Thirteen left, and do try not to waste them.”

“If you would just get over—”

“That’s two more on the clock. Running it down to the wire, huh? That your strategy? Draw me in with the intrigue? Seven seconds. Make it quick.”

Roman swallows a huge breath (for which he definitely doesn’t have the time) and groans. “Gazebo’s request went through.”

“I don’t—what?” The fifteen seconds are certainly up by now, but Logan doesn’t make a move for the door. Neither does Roman.

“For the wormhole to Neptune. Well, the moon coverup for it, anyway. He got the grant, he got the funding, Katie-Lee just told me about it. It’s gone through, go no-go set out, mission initiated, however you want to phrase it, it’s happening. He’s starting up the mission. Like, starting it up  _ soon.” _

“Yeah? Good for him. Should be exciting.” Logan folds his arms, and whether that’s to keep from screaming or to keep from throwing the door open and running away from the conversation and from reality, well, he isn’t entirely sure. Maybe a bit of both.

“Logan, surely you realize what this means?”

“Probably not, if how squeaky your voice sounds is any indication. It’s just a grant. Nothing’s going to be officially in progress this early, so what’s your deal?”

Roman groans again, doing an impressive mimicry of Logan clawing at his own face. He slaps his hands down to his thighs and grips the fabric in clenched fists, kneading the material like an agitated cat. “It means it’s gone through. It means Gazebo is going to launch a crew off the planet in a literal fiery explosion. Logan, it means that you could be going into  _ space.” _

Logan blinks. “I fail to understand how this could be a bad thing. Not to mention, I mean, it’s not like he’s even asked me yet.”

“That’s what Katie-Lee was  _ talking _ about,” Roman groans, exasperated. “She wanted me to give you a chance to talk to Virgil, to tell you that you don’t have to—”

“Hey, fell’s,” a new (and not entirely welcome) voice says as the door cracks open. Logan’s eyes dart to the entrance, where Mr. Jolenta peeks his head into the stairwell. Truly a rare sight to see—Mr. Jolenta is infamous for making himself scarce to the public eye. More of a figurehead as being Mx. Oatmeal’s boss than an actual name found in casual conversations. “Y’got a min’te?”

That’s the other thing, by the way. Mr. Jolenta is far more interested in saving time with removing syllables than expediting the process by speaking with full words. Probably saw a particular episode of  _ The Office _ too many times.

“Absolutely, we’ve got sev’ral min’tes!” Roman exclaims, far more panicky-excited than he ought to be. “Right, Logan? We’ve got, like,  _ so many _ minutes. Pretty much every minute, in fact, I mean, we actually—”

“Lead the way,” Logan interrupts, stepping toward the door. Roman bites his lips and nods, following him out of the stairwell. All the way up to Director Gazebo’s office, they walk in silent step like militia on a suicide mission. Mr. Jolenta flashes a wide smile and makes himself scarce once more as the director beckons them in.

“Space, Logan,” Roman murmurs, reaching for the door handle. “Logan, space. Space, Logan. Logan, space.”

“I believe all present company has seen  _ Parks and Rec, _ but thank you for the refresher course.” Logan places his hand over Roman’s, feeling the warmth against his palm as he pushes it down on the handle. “I still don’t get why you were so frazzled about this.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” Roman winces as the door hinges squeal in protest, apparently unused to being closed for so long. Open door policy and what have you. “Going off on me out of nowhere every time I mention broadening your—”

Roman cuts himself off as they step into the office, staring in shock at what awaits. Something straight out of a detective movie. A detective mystery movie. An overzealous detective mystery movie. An overzealous detective mystery movie about a franchise that went under fifty seconds after its inception. Something like that. “Horizons,” Roman finally breaths as Logan’s eyes catch on the director, who kneels in the middle of a mess of papers and binders and files and sticky notes, all connected with tape and string and— _ is that one of those sticky hand toys? _

“Ah, good, good, you’re here!” The director staggers to his feet, pushing stray hairs back from his face and pulling taut the skin on his forehead. “I trust you’re both doing well? Families good? Good. Great, even! So I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, although I suspect the state of affairs may clue you in somewhat. Uh, I, erm, I actually meant to get it in some semblance of working order and presentability before you arrived, but that Jolenta is certainly adamant about punctuality—or pre-punctuality, as the case may be. To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is to be excused, isn’t that always the way?” The director claps sharply twice in front of his face, as if snapping himself out of his own head. “I have some thrilling news.

“I think I’ve found just the ticket for creating and stabilizing a wormhole of a decent enough size and make to support exotic matter like, well, like a rocket. And humans. Live ones, at that! I haven’t passed as much along yet, but I did get the go-ahead for the exterior premise of a trip to the moon, as well as clearance for a max four person crew. We’ve got the extra cargo space in that fifth seat, anyway, and we’re gonna need it for an extended trip to Neptune.” The director is now grinning like a little kid at his birthday party that just smashed a piñata to smithereens. “So! You two in?”

“I don’t—in on what?” Logan doesn’t trust himself to give a concrete answer, uncertain whether he’s totally on par with what the director is asking. Uncertain whether he’s totally on par with what his own instinctive answer would be. He can feel Roman staring daggers at him, definitely not answering the question, but Logan doesn’t dare turn his head.

“The trip to Neptune! Well, to the moon, on paper, but ideally Neptune. Mission Neptune! The Neptune Shebang!”

“I didn’t give him that nickname,” Roman whispers. Logan doesn’t move.

“So? Are you in or are you in?”

“I don’t know that that’s the kind of question I can give an up-and-down answer to out of nowhere,” Roman says. Logan remains silent. “I mean, I told you as much already, right? I’d need to talk about it with my family first, my friends, you know? There’s no way I can make a knee-jerk decision like this.” Logan says nothing.

“I mean, I can give you the night to decide, think it over, but I’d really rather get started sooner than later, and if you don’t agree, we can always go with a three man crew, use the extra space for more cargo storage. There’ll be paths around your not coming along, but—”

“Wait, you don’t have any other potential candidates on deck?” Roman shakes his head in disbelief, his question saving Logan from having to give his own answer just yet. “You have a maximum of four people you want on board, and if anyone ducks out, you cull the size of the crew? Isn’t there, like, a due process you’re supposed to follow? You can’t just assume the exact crew you went in with is the one that’ll go on the mission.”

The director glances to the side, mumbling, “I can if that’s the crew that convinced HQ to give me the grant.” Refocusing his gaze on Logan, he speaks louder. “Logan, what do you think?”

“Nope, hang on, back it up.” Roman does a quick round of jazz hands, still shaking his head. “You signed us up for this death trip—and told other people about it, to boot—and you didn’t even  _ ask _ us if we’d be on board.”

“I would hardly call it a death trip, and you already said you were interested back at that initial meeting, so it’s not like it’s completely out of the blue for me to—”

“How soon do you need an answer?” Logan cuts in. The question, much more concrete than a general disbelief about possible dangers to which he did not consent, seems to slice through the tension well enough. At the very least, it breaks Roman’s increasingly furious staring competition with the director.

“Well, ah, now, ideally, would be a great time for you to go ahead and give me that answer, actually.” The director glances around his feet and laughs lightly. “I mean, I guess my current situation might not plant a whole lot of faith in your mind, but you said it yourself, remember? How you’ve always wanted to go into space? This is your big chance, Logan! There might not be another, and all that work you’ve done will have been for nothing.”

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t—” Logan hesitates, cocking his head to the side. “Wait, what do you mean for nothing, that there might not be another? It’s not as if you’ll only plan one mission in my lifetime. There’s even rumors of another moon mission—a legitimate one, by the sound of it—just a couple years out, anyway.”

“Well, yes, but I slotted you in myself for this one. I can’t promise I’ll be so generous in my selection with the next.”

“But that’s not fair.” The words leak from Logan’s lips of their own accord, and he wonders whether Virgil feels this childish when he says them. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Roman shifting his weight.

“You can’t just give him one day to decide something so important, regardless of how he’s felt and answered in the past.” Logan chooses to ignore how Roman says nothing of his own decision and history.

“See, that’s just the thing,” the director replies coolly. “I can and I did. I’m not saying you  _ have _ to answer right this second, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt your chances.”

“Chances?” Roman sputters. “What do you mean, chances? You basically already admitted that we’re the only ones you want for this mission. Chances of knocking the crew down a size, maybe.”

“Shall I take that as a yes or no from you, then?”

Logan whips his head around to Roman, feeling his own jaw straining to drop. This is the whole point of working here, of rising through the ranks, is this one chance for Roman to get into space, to do all the things to which Logan has always aspired, to broaden his horizons like he always has, so long as he just says—

“No.”

Okay, now Logan’s jaw actually does drop. He snaps it shut before anyone can notice.

“Duly noted. Sad to hear it, but I won’t force you.” The director nods and looks to Logan, who’s stunned into silence. “Logan? How about yourself?”

“I, um—”

“You don’t have to answer anything right this second,” Roman says. “You’re allowed to talk it over with Virgil, and with your dads, and with everyone else who you think deserves to weigh in on it. You don’t have to lay your whole life on the line right now.”

“I wouldn’t call it laying your  _ life _ on the line,” the director says sharply. “Simple question, yes or no. You can always change your mind later, but if you choose not to accept my offer and later have second thoughts, I cannot promise the mission—or a later vacancy—will be waiting for you.”

Logan wonders whether it’s possible to literally drown in his own fear. It certainly feels like it. Someone should do a study on that, see if it’s a feasible way to go out.

“Logan Sanders. Mission to Neptune. Yes or no?”

Logan swallows his terror and calls up Virgil’s face in his mind, picturing it in front of a television screen, picturing it watch him launch into space, picturing it in a fitful sleep, waiting for Logan to make it safely home, safely into his arms. Then he pictures it smiling, pictures it touring colleges as Logan tours the universe, pictures it beaming with pride as Logan collapses into a reassuring hug, back from the farthest reaches of the solar system, dozens of worlds crumbling in the wake of their embrace as the moon shines bright overhead, just a little less vibrant than it used to be. He holds that image close, wrapping it like a shield around his heart, and refocuses on the feeling of Roman’s hand on his shoulder, refocuses on the director staring at him, that same question hanging heavy in the air between them.

Logan Sanders, yes or no? Mission to Neptune, yes or no? Live your lifelong dream, yes or no? Leave behind everything you’ve ever known, yes or no? Achieve the only thing you’ve ever been truly certain of wanting, valued above all else for as long as you can remember, yes or no?

“Yes.”


	30. T minus 2 seconds

Logan is careful to leave an extra large tip for the barista this time (we’re talking plural twenties) as he takes his cup with a nod and smile. Gods above knows they’ve more than earned it by now, having seen more than their fair share of spats between Virgil and himself. Technically any number of spats higher than zero is more than their fair share, but still. He feels bad. So he tips extra.

There’s also the small matter of what, exactly, he plans to discuss today. No amount of tips in the world could prepare them (or Logan, frankly) for what kind of retaliation Virgil might unwittingly have in store. Well, a solid hundred might be a good start, but still. Logan is nervous.

“I can’t believe you still haven’t  _ told _ him,” Roman hisses, watching Logan sink into his usual seat by the window. “It’s been  _ ages, _ Lo. You see your  _ literal husband _ every single day. How could it have just not come up?”

“It just didn’t, okay?” Logan stares into his ceramic mug, his reflection murky and distorted by the ripples in the inky blackness. “Why do you think I asked you to come?”

“To act as a buffer and a witness for when Virgil literally tries to murder you?”

“Ha.” It’s the driest laugh Logan can manage as he takes a sip of his coffee, the bitterness drenching his tongue in a scalding liquid flame.

“Really though, I can’t believe you’ve waited this long. How has Virgil not, like, noticed you being at work for way more hours? The training hasn’t exactly been light—I mean, I can’t think of a single day I’ve seen you  _ not _ be the last one out of the office. Training facility days and  _ literal scuba diving prep _ excluded, obviously, but still. Wouldn’t that sort of thing come up eventually, be a point of contention, not seeing each other?”

“Maybe, if Virgil would bother to notice my being gone.” Logan scowls out the window, hoping to look cool and broody despite it being a vain and obvious attempt to ignore Roman glaring at him. “What? It’s not like it would’ve ever come up naturally! ‘Hey, Virgil, love of my life, light of my soul, I’m leaving you behind on this spinning hunk of rock to go study the secrets of the universe because one planet is too small for me? Don’t worry, though, I’m just going through a wormhole that’s literally only been theoretical outside of my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s office up until recently, and it’s only been tested in extremely controlled settings that don’t involve squishy organic matter?’ Yeah, that’d go over  _ real _ well. Thanks for the tip, Roman, I’ll be sure to take it into consideration moving forward.”

“That’s not how I meant it and you know it.”

“Do I?” Logan reaches for the miniature lazy susan of coffee fixins and rips open a few sugar packets, pouring them into his cup and slugging it back before they have a chance to dissolve. “Then tell me, dearest, darlingest colleague and friend of mine. How would I go about sharing that news with my husband? I am open to suggestions.”

Roman pulls the lazy susan closer and snatches some of the creamers, starting up a shaky little tower. “Well, for one, you should’ve been smart like me and told him the day you found out it was even a possibility.”

“It wasn’t set in stone then.”

“And now, nearly a year later, it’s still not set in stone, and you still haven’t said anything. You’re still waiting for the go-ahead on the last round of necessary clearances, not to mention that the literal entire rest of the world still thinks you’re going to the moon.”

“And that’s their fault for assuming we’d needlessly fly more spaceships to the moon. Humanity’s already conquered that point of view, yeah? Not to mention that in doing so, we’ve proved exactly how inconsequential we as a species are in the grand scheme of things, and people assuming we don’t want to expand our reach only have themselves to blame when we exceed their wildest expectations.”

“You can wax poetic all you want about how little it all matters and how much we’ve yet to grow, but I sincerely doubt Virgil is going to care about all that when you tell him where you’ll be once this final request goes through.”

“Oh, like Virgil would’ve had any say in this to begin with. He’d tell me to stay home and stay safe and not expand humanity’s knowledge by any stretch of the imagination, because the least dangerous path in seeking meaning in life is to accept that there is none.”

Roman’s tower, now about seven creamers tall, comes rattling down to the table in an avalanche of white plastic. Logan scoots his cup out of the way in time to avoid it catching any projectiles.

“You want to run that last part by me one more time?” Roman finally asks, gathering the creamers back into a neat little pile. He doesn’t look at Logan as he poses the question.

“What, the meaninglessness of it all?”

“Or lack thereof, mister ‘I’m too wrapped up in my own pity party for my stagnating relationship to bother caring about the other person involved in the damn thing.’ I bet you’ve exchanged more words with me here and now than you have in the past year with Virgil.”

“Even if that were true, it’d be because I’ve been training for a mission, which you might understand if you’d accepted your spot on the crew.”

“What, and leave Patton? And Morgan and Ariel? And Virgil? With you gone, I’d hardly expect them to muddle through on their own. Shockingly enough, I have people who need me down here, and so do you. Not that you thought about that, of course, when you decided pretty much immediately after being asked that you wanted to go on a space death mission, even when I told you you should think on it.”

“We’ve been over this, okay? It’s not a death mission, and it’s nothing short of derivative for you to keep calling it that.”

“And what should I call it instead? A rocket careening through a tiny impossibility in the hopes of  _ not dying _ on the other side of the solar system? Hell, the other side of the galaxy, for all we know. We’ve never seen anything organic go through a wormhole. We’ve hardly even seen  _ inorganic _ matter pass through one!”

“Because we haven’t  _ tried. _ Maybe just call it something like a space life mission if you want to be that dense, I don’t know. The whole point is that we’re advancing the limits of what we know, and pushing our preconceived ideas of our own limits to get there. This is what we need to know if we want to improve.”

“Right, right, because you’re absolutely one to talk about how meaningful life is, when you’re throwing yours away for the  _ possibility _ of some cool space rocks.”

“That is not fair.”

“Then tell me what you think, yeah? What’s the value of life to a man who wants to risk it all for a  _ maybe?” _

“Meaningless, okay? It’s all meaningless, is that what you wanted to hear? Life is inherently meaningless, and it’s nothing more than a flaw of the human psyche for people to fool themselves into thinking otherwise.”

A silence falls, not only over the table but over the whole cafe, and Logan is suddenly  _ very _ relieved that he remembered to leave a hefty tip. When Roman opens his mouth, Logan physically flinches away from his words.

“Life may be inherently meaningless, sure, but it’s a  _ damned triumph _ of the human spirit to dare to think otherwise, so you can  _ fuck right off _ with your little defeatist mentality, because I don’t want to hear it.”

With that, Roman shoves his chair back from the table and storms out of the cafe, leaving Logan alone at a table for four. He sinks lower in his seat, almost sitting on his back as he cranes his neck toward the ceiling, the chair backing digging into his spine. The consistent pattern of square tiles over his head would almost be reassuring, were it not for the discordant cracks and stains interrupting the flow. He closes his eyes in response to a light pounding that surfaces near his temples.

“Wow, weird day all around, huh?” Logan jerks up at the sound of Patton’s voice, accompanied by Virgil’s familiar footfalls. “Logan’s sleeping in the cafe, Roman’s pacing around outside, and Ariel’s professor moves up her exam? Maybe it’s a full moon.”

“It’s not a full moon,” Logan mumbles, straightening out his spine. He forces a smile onto his face as he sees Morgan peek out from behind Patton’s legs. “Hey, Morgs. How’s, um—” He hesitates, looking to Patton, who holds up three fingers. “How’s third grade treating you?”

Her face splits into a smile and she scrambles onto Roman’s vacated seat, sitting up on her knees and planting her hands on Logan’s shoulder for balance. “We just started learning division fact families with the triangle flashcards and the difference between a thundredth and a housandth—”

“Hundredth and thousandth,” Patton corrects gently.

Morgan nods, her pigtails whapping at her ears. “And the difference between a hundredth and a thousandth—one decimal place! Betcha didn’t know that, didja?”

“I had no idea,” Logan says solemnly. Morgan sticks her tongue out at him before getting distracted by Roman’s abandoned creamers, which she begins stacking.

“So, um, what’s Roman’s deal?” Virgil finally asks. “Looked pretty pissed outside. What, did you break the surprise news to him before us? Not go over too hot?”

“Oh, so  _ Logan’s _ the one with the surprise news.” Patton flashes a bright grin, completely out of sync with his conspiratorial tone.

“As if  _ I _ could come up with a surprise,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes and pushing Patton up against the window. “Patton, we’re two cis gay men. We can’t exactly surprise you with news of a pregnancy.”

“There’s always adoption,” Patton replies. He watches Morgan’s tower fall, the child not hesitating for a moment to start again. His face drips fondness and love, and Logan wonders whether he’s unknowingly worn that same expression himself. “Okay, so the news, then. Out with it.”

“Wait, hold up,” Virgil says. He patters his hands on the table like a drum roll, nudging Patton for him to join. Morgan only pouts for a moment at her crumbling towers before she adds her own rhythmless pounding. Once he’s seemingly satisfied with the build up, Virgil nods at Logan. “Okay, go ahead.”

It’s weird, to tell the truth. In the movies and the tv shows and the books and the stories and, well, in  _ everything _ , the person sharing a secret always seems to struggle with it. They fumble their words, they say things out of order, they run it all together until it’s an unintelligible mess, they do everything in their power to keep a secret a secret. Logan almost wishes that were the case for him, rather than what actually happens.

“I’ve been accepted for a mission to Neptune that, on the surface, will present as a mission to the moon. Through the use of a wormhole, the logistics of which we’re still working out, a multi-decade journey could happen in a matter of months. That’s the news.”

A weird quiet falls, and there’s that word again,  _ weird. _ It’s all weird, a weird mess of weirdness that Logan can’t really explain, because (again,  _ weirdly _ ), this whole meetup feels like just another day in a coffeeshop with casual discussions about usual happenings. Everything is perfectly and profoundly ordinary, and it’s weird, and Logan doesn’t like it.

Also weird is Morgan, who’s still gleefully drumming away at the table. Patton gives her a look and she stops, smiling sheepishly.

“Oh,” Virgil finally says. Oh. That’s it. Just ‘oh.’ Oh. Not ‘wow,’ not ‘why didn’t you tell me sooner,’ not ‘what the hell is wrong with you, you flaming pile of absolute human garbage?’ Just oh.

Oh.

“Sorry,” Logan whispers, feeling something weird needling at the back of his eyes. He furrows his brow and shakes his head, trying to get rid of the sensation. It works, sort of. A few tears leak out, splattering against the table, but at least the needling stops.

Oh.

“Morgan,” Patton says carefully—too careful, too gentle, too quiet, too weird. “Why don’t you go hang out with Uncle Roman? I bet he’d love to hear about decimals. Bet he doesn’t know about the thousandth place.” Morgan, clearly unaware of the veil of  _ weird _ that’s descended, sweeps an arm over her tower and books it for the door. The bell is still ringing as the creamers hit the floor, a few popping open and dripping puddles across the linoleum.

Oh.

“Oh.”

“I, um—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” It’s all Logan can do at this point to apologize, all he knows how to do. ‘Harder to ask permission than beg forgiveness,’ isn’t that the saying? Whoever came up with that apparently never took into account how damn hard the begging part would be. “Sorry.”

“Oh.”

Patton looks at Virgil for a long moment, affording him the chance to say something, anything more to his husband that kept something so big from him for so long, but Virgil says nothing. Just ‘oh.’

Oh.

“Logan,” Patton exhales, more of a sigh than an actual word, an actual name of an actual person in this actual conversation. “How long have you known about this?”

Now it’s Logan’s turn to exhale, the truth coming out in a forced whoosh, choking him from the inside out. “Almost a year.”

Virgil slams his elbows down on the table and buries his head in his hands, laughing quietly. “A year. A fucking  _ year. _ That’s rich. That’s great. That’s really, really great.” He keeps laughing, a hollow nothing, as if it’s the only thing that can possibly keep him breathing anymore. “A  _ year _ .”

“Logan, you mean to tell me—” Patton cuts himself off, his jaw working furiously as an odd emotion seeps into his voice, the likes of which Logan never would’ve thought him capable before. Patton allows himself a few heavy breaths, louder than the faint music playing from the speakers along the ceiling, and lands his eyes somewhere around Logan’s chin. It somehow feels worse than if he would just make direct eye contact. “You’ve been keeping this from Virgil for over a year?”

“Almost a year,” Logan corrects meekly, feeling about as pathetic as a roach squashed under a brick. He wonders whether his heart shrinks to the same size.

“Now is hardly an appropriate time for your particulars.” Patton clenches his hands into fists on the table, and Logan briefly entertains the image of them flying full force into his face with all of the rage Virgil is undoubtedly holding beneath his simmering silence. “Is this—is that why Roman was so mad? Did he not know, either?”

“He, um, he’s known. The whole time, I mean. He kept it quiet for me. He was actually offered an original spot on the crew, too, back when it first—”

“Shut your  _ damn _ mouth.” Patton takes another long breath, but this one doesn’t seem to steady him as much. “That’s what he was talking about? When he asked me if I would be comfortable with him launching off the planet for a breakout work mission? He knew back then and asked me about it and everything, and you didn’t think it was even worth  _ mentioning _ to Virgil?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You think it matters two ticks whether you meant to? If you pull out of a gas station and slam into someone switching over from the far lane, sure you didn’t  _ mean _ to, but you still  _ did _ it. I just— _ mmnh.” _ Patton makes a low, miserable noise at the back of his throat and shakes his head, his fists clenching and unclenching. The perks of being a trained museum security guard—Logan is downright terrified of what those fists might do.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?” Virgil whispers. It’s the quietest sound Logan’s ever heard, softer than footsteps on loose sand in the shallows of a barren lake, but it echoes as loud as a bag of potato chips at three in the morning in a sleeping house. It shatters Logan to his very core, split into more pieces than the crumbs at the bottom of that same chip bag.

Logan likes to ignore reality through the escapism of his thoughts.

“Over a year ago, when your director first had that meeting, you swore to me that you’d never make that kind of decision without talking to me first, not ever. You didn’t even entertain the chance that you might go, and you—you just—” Virgil shakes his head again, shoving his fingers past his face and burying them in the roots of his hair, now a light brown surfacing beneath the ever-fading purples. “When do you leave?”

“I don’t know yet, we haven’t gotten the—”

“Bullshit. When do you jump off the planet to certain death and leave me behind without a second thought because it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life is to  _ leave?” _

“Hey, it’s been decades since the last fatality related to a failed launch, so calling it certain death seems a little—”

“I don’t care how it seems, Logan! I care about how it  _ is, _ and how it  _ is _ is that you’ve kept this huge thing from me and Patton for a year now, and you think it’s the kind of information you can casually drop over a cup of coffee.”

“I—I don’t know what you want me to say, Virgil. I feel really bad about this, I do, but I—”

“And you damn well  _ should _ feel bad!” Patton cuts in. “You should feel very bad about this! That’s exactly correct!”

Virgil ghosts a hand over Patton’s arm, stopping him from getting into a full-on shouting match with a shell-shocked Logan. “I don’t know what I want you to say, either.” Virgil drops his hand to the table with a thud, staring at his palms. Definitely not acknowledging Logan’s presence. “It’s great news, really, it is, but it sucks that you didn’t tell me sooner, and I really don’t think there’s anything you  _ can _ say to me past that. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just talk your way out of. The time for talking was a year ago, and you missed your chance.”

Logan bites his lip and looks down at his mug, at his distorted reflection within. Patton slams a fist down on the table, destroying the facade of Logan’s face. “I’m gonna go talk to Roman. Maybe  _ he’ll _ have something helpful to say about why he thought we didn’t deserve to hear about this sooner.”

And now it’s Logan alone with Virgil in an achingly quiet cafe, cheery pop songs pouring from the speakers. “I’m sorry,” Logan whispers. Well, tries to whisper. Nothing comes out, save for a broken squeak. He tries again, but the only sound he can manage is a defeated ‘oh.’

Oh.

Something shifts in Logan’s peripherals. He glances up to see Virgil’s hand resting on the table, palm up, midway across the table. Meeting Logan halfway. Logan stretches his own arm out, placing his fingers hesitantly around Virgil’s, feeling the cold metal of Virgil’s wedding band pressing into his palm. Hot tears bead up at the corners of Logan’s eyes again as he lifts them slowly, slowly, slowly to see Virgil staring blankly back. It’s an aching emptiness, all the absence of matter in the galaxies expanding out around them, two people as two planets orbiting around each other amidst a sky of fizzling stars and dwindling moons.


	31. T minus 1 second

Logan yawns and stretches his arms up over his head, wincing when his fingers collide too suddenly with the headboard.  _ Well, that’s one way to crack your knuckles, _ he thinks, shaking it off and flexing the muscles in his back until his shoulder blades nearly touch. He lets out another yawn, this one accompanied by a popping sound that he doesn’t quite want to call normal, but caring about that isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities today. He yawns again. It closes up the back of his throat, sending involuntary tears stabbing at the corners of his eyes.

Something shifts on the far side of the bed. As he turns to investigate, it moves faster—relatively speaking, of course, since Logan’s mind is moving about an inch an hour right now. Virgil sighs, seemingly half asleep as he grabs feebly at the topmost blanket and draws it closer to his chest. His back is to Logan, who stares for a moment, two, thinking of how many more chances they’ll have to wake up like this. How few, more like it. Together.

He reaches hesitantly across the mattress, feeling the blankets fall aside as Virgil pulls them tighter to his chin, a cocoon of warmth as well as a shield separating him from Logan. For however much it counts, it feels like several miles’ worth of steel, rather than a few inches of plush fabric. Letting out another yawn— _ since when has he been so tired? Oh, right, since his training picked up in earnest and dragged him further away from Virgil _ —Logan scoots himself across the mattress, lightly resting his arm over Virgil’s torso. Virgil stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. He’s awake, then.

There’s so many things Logan wants to say right now— _ I’m sorry, I love you, I wish I’d told you sooner, I wish I’d never said yes to the mission, I know I was wrong like always and the only thing I can ask of you is to forgive me, all I can ask is that you  _ love _ me _ —but even that’s too much, and Logan knows it. He instead passes the moments by with achingly slow movements, lowering his arm millimeter by millimeter, hardly even breathing with each fraction of an inch closer it gets to holding Virgil tight. He moves like someone trying not to wake a sleeping dog on their way to the bathroom, terrified that one jerky motion or muscle spasm will spook Virgil and send him running for the hills.

Once his arm is finally,  _ finally _ draped over Virgil’s side, heavy with the gravity tethering him to this planet and heavy with all the things Logan is too scared to say and heavy with the terror that his deadweight arm is holding Virgil here against his will, Logan shifts his body, cradling Virgil’s still-stiff form against his own. Even through the barricade of blankets, Logan can feel him trembling.

“I love you,” Logan whispers at last, the words little more than a pattern of dents in a soft exhale against the slope of Virgil’s neck. He says it again, and again, and again, a mantra that means absolutely everything and absolutely nothing, all at once. He says it again.

“What if something happens to you?” Virgil murmurs. He doesn’t echo Logan’s words.

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” Logan buries his nose in the tufts of Virgil’s hair trailing across the pillow, inhaling the fading scent of indescribable  _ clean _ from his shower last night. A long one, too—probably trying to get away from Logan. Not for the first time.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that you don’t want anything to happen to me, so I  _ know _ that I won’t let anything happen to me.”

“You  _ can’t _ know that.”

“And you can’t know that anything  _ will _ happen.”

“You can’t know it won’t.”

Logan nods and pulls Virgil closer. “I know.”

“Logan, I—” Virgil cuts himself off, pulling on the blankets until they nearly cover his head. It crosses Logan’s mind that he hasn’t seen Virgil’s face this morning, but he makes no mention of this fact. The trembling picks up, much faster now, along with barely-contained sniffles.

“It’s okay,” Logan mumbles, tightening his arms around Virgil like a lifeline. For him or for Virgil, he isn't sure. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”

“Logan, I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me. I still owe you the moon, remember?”

“I’m not kidding around.”

“Neither am I.”

Those words hang heavy in the air for a long, long moment, echoing in Logan’s head as he breathes. In. And out. He just breathes, just keeps his lungs working slow and steady, willing Virgil’s shoulders to even out, to match up with his own careful pace. They don’t. If anything, they worsen.

“Virgil, I would never leave you. You know that, right?”

Silence.

An ocean storm rages in his head, tidal waves crashing in his ears and cyclones beating cracks into his skull as his eyes drift shut and he sighs. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll back out.”

“I—what?” Virgil tries to sit up at this, stopped only by the vise grip Logan has around his torso. Once Logan releases him, Virgil sits up fully, whipping his head around to stare at Logan in obvious disbelief. The way the weak sunlight filtering through the blinds plays off Virgil’s pale skin is enough to distract Logan from hearing what Virgil says the first time he says it. And the second time. By the third, Logan suspects he maybe just doesn’t  _ want _ to hear whatever Virgil is saying. He suspects his heart will be sufficiently crushed either way.

“You wouldn’t back out.”

“I would, if that’s what you wanted.”

“But I—you—this has been your dream since, like,  _ forever. _ This has always been the plan, hasn’t it? Don’t you want to go?”

“I mean, of course I want to go. But plans can change. Times can be rescheduled, missions can be moved around, I can always fake cold feet, and the director did say I could change my mind at any point if I had to. If you want me to back out, I will back out.”

“You can’t just back out because your husband is a little wuss.”

Logan sits up, suddenly all too aware of how awkward it must feel for Virgil to be talking down at him like this. Resting his bare back against the headboard, Logan tilts his head toward the ceiling and pictures the stars stretching on above it, far beyond his reach. “I can and I will, if you want me to. All you need to do is ask. This isn’t a one way street, Virgil. You’re allowed to have sway here, and I certainly didn’t give you that basic dignity when it first came up last year. The least I can do is back out now if it’ll keep you happy.”

“You can’t just quit.” Virgil’s tone is soft and bewildered, almost an injured hesitance as he shakes his head, not meeting Logan’s eyes. He turns on the mattress to lean against Logan’s shoulder. “You can’t.”

“I think I’ve been pretty direct in saying I can, love.” Logan tries to force a little laugh in at the end there, but it’s about the weakest attempt at humor he can manage. He presses his fingers to his closed eyes and shakes his head, shivering. “Just say the word and I won’t go. Say it now, say it tomorrow, say it the day of the launch if you want. Hell, you could send me a transmission in morse code in the last few seconds before takeoff, and I would be at your side before the engines finish cooling.”

Before Virgil has a chance to respond, Logan’s phone lights up on the nightstand, pinging with the personalized ringtone for a message from the director. Logan looks at Virgil.

“No harm in checking an email,” Virgil points out, intentionally avoiding the question in Logan’s eyes. Logan hesitates, then reaches for the phone. It’s all he can do to keep his hands from shaking, all he can do to keep from dropping the device, all he can do not to break it in half as he speeds through his passwords to get to his inbox. All he can do to stay in this moment, in this room, on this planet.

_ Final parameters confirmed, _ reads the email. Logan’s heart just about stops.  _ Participation and compliance confirmed upon active acknowledgement of message received and conclusive agreement. Y/N. _

“Y slash N,” Virgil deadpans, his voice much steadier than his trembling body would lead Logan to believe. “Well, Logan? Y or N?”

“It’s your call,” Logan replies, passing the phone to Virgil, who immediately drops it like a glass bowl fresh out of the microwave. “Smooth.”

“Shut up,” Virgil retorts. If nothing else, at least his fumble lightened the suffocating tension of the room, just a little bit. He grabs at the phone before it can fall deeper into the mass of blankets. Logan watches as Virgil messes around with the inbox, waffling for a good while before finally making his way toward the reply button.

“Y or N,” Virgil murmurs to himself.

“Y or N,” Logan agrees quietly.

Virgil turns to shield the screen with his body and presses a few buttons before putting the screen to sleep and handing it back over. Careful not to seem too eager (or too panicked, as the case is far more likely to be), Logan navigates back to his emails—more specifically, to the one Virgil just sent to the director.

Y.


	32. T minus 0 seconds

Logan can’t decide whether he’s so tired that he feels awake or he’s so awake that he feels tired. He shrugs on an old cardigan over his most nicely pressed shirt and dusts imaginary debris off the front of his pants, then mutes his phone. Just in time, too, as another encouraging message rolls in from Cassidy. Every time he tries to leave that confounded group chat, they just add him back in. There’s apparently no escaping ‘the OG fifth floor squad,’ as it’s so belovedly named. And another message, this one drenched in emojis of rockets and stars. And another. Logan allows himself a small smile and sets his phone to  _ do not disturb. _

On his way to the door, ready to do what he’s wanted to do ever since he knew what wanting was, he pauses to press one last long kiss to Virgil’s forehead. Virgil doesn’t stir, and as much as Logan wants another goodbye, a final one, a  _ real _ one, he knows Virgil would refuse saying the actual word. So he instead pulls the bedroom door shut softly behind him and heads for the front entrance, keys in hand. Inches from exiting, he pauses at the sound of the bedroom door opening back up.

And there, blinking blearily against the weak dawn is Virgil, sporting flannel pajama pants and a soft smile. Logan grins and spreads his arms out, holding his breath as Virgil shuffles over and wraps him in a hug. The sleeves of Logan’s cardigan drape around Virgil like a shield.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Logan whispers into Virgil’s shoulder.

“I know,” Virgil mumbles, slouching until Logan can tuck his chin over his sleep-mussed hair. “Anything else you want to say before you go shooting off the planet?”

“I love you?”

“I love you, too. Little more, though.”

“I love you more than you love bad coffee?”

“Lot more.”

“I’ll bring you the moon?”

“Yes, you will.”

With that, Logan gives him one more firm squeeze, drawing the moment out for as long as time will allow before he heads outside to meet Roman, who looks remarkably close to playing some AC/DC drums on the car horn and waking everyone in a five mile radius. Logan places a hand on the bricks framing the entryway, feeling the cool, stubbly surface under his palms and wondering how long it’ll be before he can touch them again. Wondering how far away he’ll get before he comes back. Wondering how many planets lie between him now and him then.

He hops into the passenger seat of Roman’s car and wonders whether it’s as obvious as it feels how shaky his hands are.

“Your hands are really shaky, my dude.”

Okay, so it is that obvious. “Can we make a quick stop at a coffee place on the way out?”

“Liquid bravery? I’m on it.”

“I thought you called it liquid inspiration.”

“It’s liquid whatever you need it to be, my man.”

And with that, they’re on their way.

\---------

_ After that first time seeing Virgil—Cadmium, as he then knew him—fall asleep on the bench, Logan was in no hurry to become a regular at the museum. But then, things never quite seemed to work out the way he planned, did they? _

_ Cadmium walked through that abstract art room a few more times that day, always with a new cluster of students, and Logan was more than happy to sit on that same bench and watch him go, watch how easily he interacted with the students, how enthusiastic he was about every piece of art lining the walls. _

_ Logan learned not to expect the same information to keep floating over, though, by sheer virtue of how different each tour was from the last. He didn’t think it was even possible to play so many foils to the same thing. Cadmium focused on different works each time, pointed out different areas of symbolism and absurdist conspiracies, and the only constant was him taking a quick break on benches around the room. He had a route through the building, and he followed it well, but all else was seemingly done on the fly. _

_ He rarely returned to Logan’s bench, but Logan was perfectly content to watch him from afar. If nothing else, it was great fun to see various strangers jostle him awake. It crossed Logan’s mind more than a couple times that Cadmium might straight-up not get any sleep,  _ ever, _ outside of the breaks between his tours. A baseless thought, to be sure, but it kept him entertained well enough. _

\---------

Logan cranes his neck to lean his ear against the side of the headrest, slugging back a black coffee with five shots of espresso and whipped cream. An acquired taste, Virgil had called it, an acquisition for which Logan is still patiently waiting. Maybe a little  _ impatiently, _ actually. He drinks it faster, hoping the way it scalds his tongue will distract his taste buds from the flavor—or lack thereof.

“You really want to do this?” Roman asks quietly as he pulls into the parking structure. He gives a low whistle. “Go save the world by running away from it?”

“I would hardly call this  _ saving _ the world, much less running away from it.” Logan undoes his seatbelt, careful not to spill his drink all over the cardigan that he definitely stole from Virgil’s side of the closet when he wasn’t looking. A big coffee stain probably wouldn’t be the best parting gift for Virgil to remember Logan by, waiting in vain and fearing he wouldn’t return.  _ When _ Logan returns, he’ll buy Virgil a new cardigan. “You ready to face the director hounding you to change your mind at the last second?”

“I’m ready to ignore him being a hypocrite about how changing my mind from no to yes would be a difficult task, if that’s what you mean.” Roman locks his car until it honks, aiming the key fob over his shoulder and grinning at Logan. “You really gonna down the rest of that thing?”

“Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I have to.” Craning his neck to look at the building in all its glory, Logan knocks back the rest of his drink, right down to the bitter dredges at the bottom. “Virgil’s never even been to the new office, much less to see the launchpad beyond the boundary. He basically only saw the old one since he did that first fetch quest from Alex.”

“OG fifth floor squad fuh tuh wuh,” Roman agrees.

“Fuh tuh wuh?”

“For the win. Y’know, the abbreviation? But, like, phonetically?”

“Whatever.” Logan swings the front door open and holds it for Roman with one hand, using the other to toss his empty cup in the trash. “Just hurry up. This is pretty much the worst possible day for us to be running late.”

“Maybe for you. For me, I’m just following a soon-to-be astronaut around a rocket compound.”

“Don’t hype up something so mundane.”

“Right, right, my mistake. There’s nothing exciting or worth hyping up about launching off the planet with an explosion of scientific magicalness.”

“Not a thing. Hurry up.”

\---------

_ One of the highlights of Logan’s fetch quest app was that it never gave out any personal information in either direction, beyond obvious necessities like delivery location and allergy concerns. An incredibly specific and unrelatable downside to this, however, was that it made it incredibly difficult for Logan to track down Cadmium after his fetch quest delivery to the fifth floor. Logan spent a good chunk of his day after punching out stalking the nearby cafes, coffeehouses, even hole-in-the-wall shacks that had keurigs puttering away in their break rooms. All in the vain hope that he might find Cadmium in the midst of another fetch quest. _

_ He didn’t find him, of course, but he made great new relationships with a few baristas who rapidly grew sick of his chasing down a mystery fetch kid. Heck, Logan didn’t even have the guy’s name, so he had no idea why he was so invested in finding him. Short of exploiting his own app to track him down—which Logan  _ certainly _ wasn’t about to do, since he did have some sense of decorum—Logan could do nothing but hope to accidentally stumble upon Cadmium another time. So that’s where he was at, and that was where he remained until luck and fate decided he’d waited long enough. Luck and fate, however, took their sweet time in helping him out again. _

\---------

Logan shrugs his stolen cardigan higher on his shoulders as he and Roman pace through the building, waiting out the T minus 6 hours and counting. Every corner offers more of his coworkers doing their own final base checks, most of them waving excitedly as he passes, and Logan wonders whether any of them know where he’s actually supposed to be going. The director never really specified who all was in on the whole ‘not going to the moon’ situation, and this fact absolutely did not escape Logan’s notice. But then, he’s going to space either way, so why should he care? Achieving his lifelong dream is bound to come with some (possibly legal) complications.

In one of the emptier halls on the first floor, Logan steps to the side and leans up against a wall, feeling the cool metal pressing into his back. Roman stands across from him, playing around on his phone and waiting for Logan to speak first. Logan isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to say, but he knows he has to say something. At the very least, the momentousness of the, well, the  _ moment _ seems to call for it.

“I’ll make it back,” he finally relents, his words echoing off the tiles around them. Impossibly temporary things, bound to crack at the slightest obstacle.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Roman replies. He lowers his phone and looks at Logan, holding him in place with a stare that shakes Logan to his care. “Because I don’t think we’d know what to do if you didn’t.”

“Neither do I.” Logan folds his arms and imagines Virgil watching the launch, watching it all go smoothly, watching Logan vanish into the depths of the universe, waiting for him to come back, waiting for a transmission confirming a successful return route. Hearing nothing.

He shakes his head, chasing away those fears and hoping Roman won’t notice the lines of worry he can feel skittering across his face. “I think I need some air.”

“That’s fair. Rhyme unintended but selfishly appreciated.” Roman pushes off his own wall first, holding out a hand to Logan. Leading the way toward an exit, Roman fills the space between them with empty words, wonderfully reassuring amidst the stillness of everyone hidden away in their work on this floor. “I mean, you’ve gotta get all the real oxygen you can, right? Not gonna be a whole lot of that for a while here. Or there, I guess. Would it be here or there? I know you weren’t an english major, but this seems like a kind of important distinction to make. Or is it hither versus thither?”

Logan smiles to himself as they step out into the sun, taking in Roman’s nonsense rambles and turning them into shields against the insistent fears hammering a staccato rhythm into his ribcage.

\---------

_ Though he would do just about anything to convince you otherwise, Logan absolutely adored his little impromptu photoshoot with Cadmium in the park. He loved trying (his hardest (and still failing)) to pose like a model in Cadmium’s gear, feeling much cooler with each shutter click than he knew he probably looked. _

_ One fact that lent itself particularly well to knowing he didn’t look the slightest bit ‘cool,’ per se, was when Logan tried to pose up against the big tree, throwing an arm in the air like a college graduate without their cap. It might’ve looked somewhat dynamic _ —dynamic? Is that the word?— _ were it not for how the sleeve of Cadmium’s cardigan snagged on one of the tree branches. Logan elected to focus more on this and less on how Cadmium’s headphones came whipping around his neck, the earpad smacking him on the cheek. _

_ Needless to say, it was an unholy mix of heartwarming and humiliating to hear Cadmium laughing at him for that, doubled over and not holding back in mocking how ridiculous Logan looked. Logan’s ears were probably fire engine red by then, but he was far more focused on trying to free his arm from the prison of the tree. By the time he actually succeeded in doing so (and it did take quite a while, mind you), Cadmium was pretty much on the ground in hysterics. _

_ It was definitely worth it, though. _

\---------

Logan swallows a deep gulp of fresh air, then another, and another, inhaling as much as he can possibly hold and then taking in more. He breathes harder and faster, ready to hyperventilate in the name of getting as much air as he can before he’s stuck with the stale artificiality carried beyond the atmosphere. It’s when his head starts to go foggy that he pulls back, centering himself by dropping to a crouch on the sidewalk and gripping a fistful of dry grass. He rips out a dandelion and holds it up to his face, watching the white flecks fight to free themselves from the seed head. He blows them off and admires the way they dance across the wind.

“Little melancholy there, bud?” Roman crouches beside him and places a steady hand on his back. “Bit more melodramatic than I would’ve expected from you.”

“I’m allowed to have fun,” Logan retorts, ripping the stem in half, then quarters, then eighths, shredding it into little green confetti that showers over the sidewalk. “This is fun. I’m having fun.” He tosses a few pieces up in Roman’s face before he rises, brushing some stray grass and pollen from his—well, Virgil’s—cardigan. Hopefully Virgil won’t mind that he stole it. Roman can always return it later, anyway.

It’s as Logan realizes he’s avoiding the inevitable with these circling thoughts that he takes Roman by the hand and pulls him toward the door, determined to make the most of his last day on this planet before he sees the stars up close.

\---------

_ As he watched Cadmium—Virgil, as he now knew—stride out of the museum on what might’ve been colloquially referred to as their first date, Logan had one of several things on his mind. Primarily the fact that one of his colleagues saw that entire exchange and said nothing of it. _

_ “What’re you staring at?” Logan asked Roman as the latter stepped away from the security guard. “Have you no better things to do than stalk your coworkers?” _

_ “Not really,” Roman admitted with a shrug. “How ’bout yourself, huh? Hanging out with the fetch quest riffraff? Gone and found yourself a hot date?” _

_ At this, Logan’s ears lit up bright enough to shame Rudolph. “Hardly. I was just admiring some fine art, an activity you clearly lack the particularity to understand.” _

_ “Says the space enthusiast to the guy who’s been to the museum more than twice in the last month.” _

_ Logan bit back the urge to correct him, having been to the museum several times in the last month himself. That is, he doesn’t necessarily love the idea of explaining why, exactly, he’d become such a frequent visitor. Instead, he retorted with the incredibly original response of “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Very creative. _

_ “Never said you did, but I’m glad we could have this interesting and informative chat.” Roman patted Logan on the shoulder as they both moved for the exit, tossing a wave to Patton on the way. “See y’at work, mate.” _

_ “I’m not your mate, pal.” _

_ “And I’m not your pal, mate.” Roman spared a grin to Logan before splitting at the parking lot and making for his car. Logan scowled after him, wondering if this guy would be getting on his nerves too much more after that day. _

\---------

“Earth to Logan?” Roman says, waving a hand in front of his face. Logan shakes his head, blinking as his eyes adjust to the artificial lights inside, the ghost of the sun still hovering in the corners of his vision.

“Yeah, um, yeah. Left, I guess, so we can look over the stuff the higher ups might’ve missed?”

Roman nods, leading the way down the next several halls toward the first floor lounge area, where almost everything is as normal. It’s weird, frankly, how everything looks exactly the same as it always does. For most of the people working here, the only difference they’ll notice from any other day is a span of an hour or so, during which they’ll have to turn up the volume of their headphones a little. For Logan, though, today will change everything. He’ll return from today a completely different person, but it won’t be evident to anyone that doesn’t already know him. There’s a maximum of about twenty people on this entire planet—in the entire universe, really, if you’re feeling momentous—that would notice how much he’s certain to change after today. He straightens out a few chairs around one of the tables.

“Nervous yet?” Roman asks. A sharp cry escapes him as he ducks to avoid a balled up piece of paper chucked at his head, courtesy of a very nervous Logan.

“Absolutely not,” Logan lied. “I’m insulted you would even ask.”

“Yeah, right. Just promise you won’t hurt your fellow astro-nerds, yeah? Can’t have the mission going south ’cause of your pride.”

“Pfft. As if.” Logan glances askance at some of the dust the overnight janitors missed, hoping his weak response didn’t tip Roman off to just how terrified he is. It probably did, though.

\---------

_ Logan all but ran out of the laser tag arena once the game was over, checking his reflection in his phone screen and hoping his panic wasn’t showing through too obviously. Virgil scurried out after him, still laughing and making fun of everything he could imagine. _

_ “I wish you could’ve seen your face, I mean, you looked downright terrified! Freaking  _ petrified, _ seriously! Like, I know it’s a high intensity kind of game for a literal adult to run around shooting people with lasers, but you looked like you thought it was the end of the world! Did you really take it to heart that much?” _

_ “I was merely playing it up to enhance the experience for you, since you so clearly seemed to enjoy it more when you were winning. I couldn’t dull the thrill of victory for you. It was only politeness on my part that I chose to sweeten the pot.” _

_ “Bold words for a bad liar, but I guess I don’t mind the way they taste,” Virgil replied, and with no further warning, he spun around and stopped dead in front of Logan. Logan opened his mouth to question it, but in an instant, Virgil had his hands cupped around the sides of Logan’s face, pulling him close in a kiss that was far more surprising than any laser gun shot. Logan closed his eyes and smiled into it. _

\---------

Logan grins down at his phone as it chimes its personalized ringtone for a text from Virgil. He must’ve accidentally switched off the  _ do not disturb _ mode at some point. Ignoring Roman’s teasing chides about how Logan was always ragging on some poor, unsuspecting intern or another for disrupting a productive work atmosphere with social media, Logan unlocks his phone and glances over his inbox. Just after his message to Virgil saying ‘home shortly’ is a gif of Chris Traeger from  _ Parks and Rec _ calling him amazing. He shakes his head and sends back a thumbs up emoji—while not a fan of sending gifs himself, Logan is more than happy to receive them. Only from Virgil, though. Any gifs from Roman are met with immediate complaints and temporary blockings of his number.

“How much longer until three and holding?” Logan asks, trailing behind Roman as the latter continues on their sort-of-tour of the first floor.

“About half an hour, as of last check. Why, got a hot date?”

“Hardly. Not that you’d know anything about that, of course.” Logan pockets his phone and stops cold as Roman pauses in front of the elevators and pushes the button to call one down. “I’m not riding in that steel death trap.”

“You want to climb up seven flights of stairs right before going to sit in a literal rocketship?”

“If it means not riding in the elevator, then yes. It’s not like I don’t already do this every day, anyway. I’ll just meet you up there. Wouldn’t hurt to have the extra exercise anyway, right? Especially with me sitting in that rocket, like you said. Stretch m’legs.”

“I guess so.” Roman shrugs and motions for Logan to head up as the elevator slides open.

It should probably come as no surprise at this point that Logan sprints up the stairs (two at a time) in his efforts to beat Roman to the top.

He does, in fact, beat Roman to the top, by the way.

\---------

_ Having leaned over Virgil to grab the remote from the far end of the couch, Logan gave up halfway through and ended up sprawled over Virgil’s lap. _

_ “Whatcha doin’?” Virgil asked amusedly. _

_ “Grabbing the remote,” Logan said, not grabbing the remote. _

_ “And how’s that workin’ out for you?” _

_ “It is not.” _

_ “Cool. Just making sure.” _

_ Logan stretched his arms farther, more of a delicious pulling at the stiff muscles in his sides than in an actual effort to grab the remote. After enjoying a decent laugh or two (which sent pleasant rumbles through Logan’s skull), Virgil took mercy and picked up the remote himself. Immediately followed by holding it over his head, well out of Logan’s reach. _

_ “Hey, who’s not being fair now?” Though he kept his tone carefully annoyed, there was no way Logan could keep the happy little smile off his face. _

_ “Why are you so desperate to steal my remote?” _

_ “Who says it’s your remote? I’m the name under the contract of this place.” _

_ “And I’m the one that helped you pick it, so the remote is mine. I get legal custody.” _

_ “That does not even a little bit track.” Logan gave up on reaching for the remote, instead slumping back down across Virgil’s legs and letting gravity drag his limbs heavy toward the earth. “Anyway, we need to pick another show.” _

_ “Another show?” _

_ “ _ Parks and Rec _ is over. What do we watch next?” _

_ “Next? There is no next.  _ Parks and Rec _ is now,  _ Parks and Rec _ is forever. Back to the first episode.” Virgil, now easily in control of the remote that objectively was not his, aimed it at the screen and moved the selection cursor to the first episode of the series. Logan groaned and turned his head to bury his nose between Virgil’s knees. _

_ “I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to survive another round of this show,” Logan moaned. “Don’t make me rewatch it, not just yet.” _

_ “Oh, I don’t know,” Virgil singsonged. “Could be fun.” _

_ “What about  _ The Office? _ You said I needed to watch that, too, right?” _

_ “I suppose.” Virgil harrumphed, drawing Logan’s attention just in time to see him selecting the first episode of  _ The Office. _ “You don’t have to sit up, but you do have to pay attention.” _

_ “Can I take notes?” _

_ “Please do not take notes.” _

\---------

As Logan toes the door to the stairwell shut behind him, he has to force down a yelp at the sudden appearance of Miss Katie-Lee, who clutches a stack of folders to her chest.

“Oh, Logan!” she exclaims. “I didn’t expect to see you in here today. Haven’t you got a mission to be getting ready for? It’s nearly through six and counting, is it not?”

“Just doing some last minute checks,” Logan says, glancing at the elevator doors as they slide open and spit out Roman. “Taking it all in while I can, you know? I won’t be seeing it again for a good while.”

“That makes sense.” Miss Katie-Lee smiles brightly, shifting her papers to the crook of one elbow and reaching out her other arm to grip Logan’s shoulder and pull him to her side. Leaning in close enough for her hair to tickle the top of Logan’s ear, she whispers, “I’m so glad I decided to promote you. I know I made the right choice, and you’ve only continued to prove me right ever since. You’re going to do all of us so proud, Logan. By the way, Joy wanted me to tell you something about butterfingers? Like, the candy bar? Said you would know what to say.”

“Oh, um, just tell her Almond Joy for me, please.”

“Will do.” Miss Katie-Lee tightens her grip on him, a sudden hug he wasn’t expecting as she leans in close again. “Seriously though, you’ve blown everyone here away. You might not believe it yourself, but you’ve done so many amazing things, and we cannot  _ wait _ to see what you do next.”

Logan blinks quickly in a silent argument with his mind not to get emotional. There’s no reason for that sort of thing, anyway, as Miss Katie-Lee moves past him for the stairs with only a brief wave over her shoulder. Roman, on the other hand, looks like his head might pop right off his body.

“Someone’s popular,” he singsongs, resting his elbow on Logan’s shoulder. Logan shrugs it off, pretending to be annoyed by the show of familiarity. Rather than deal with the implications of what he instinctively felt at Miss Katie-Lee’s remark, he does an about face and heads for his (soon to be old) desk.

\---------

_ “Hey, Dad,” Logan said in as cheerful a tone he could manage, clasping the phone to his ear with trembling hands. “Can you get Doddo on the line, too?” _

_ “Oh, Logan, this isn’t an office line, I don’t think I can—” _

_ “Just put it on speaker,” Logan clarified. “Pull the phone away from your ear and tap the—” _

_ “I think I got it!” His dad’s voice neared a shout as he presumably pulled the phone away from his ear. “And your Doddo’s right over here. Say hi to Logan, hon.” _

_ “Hi to Logan, hon!” his doddo exclaimed. Logan winced, leaning away from the crackling feedback in his phone. He had a remarkable tendency to forget just how loud his parents could be. “What’s going on? You hardly ever call us!” _

_ “What? I call you all the time. I called you last week.” _

_ “You should be calling daily,” his dad cut in. _

_ “Dad,” Logan sighed, at the same moment that his doddo chided, “Emile, leave him alone.” _

_ “Fine, fine, every other day, but no less. So what’d you want to talk about?” _

_ “You remember that promotion I was gunning for? The one I had to have that meeting with Miss Katie-Lee about?” _

_ “Oh, I love Katie-Lee! She always sounds like such a lovely lady from your stories. You know, the ones you only share with us once in a blue moon, because you never call.” _

_ “Not the point, Dad. Anyway, about the promotion—um, I got it. That’s what I called to tell you. Is that I got it.” Logan paused, put off by the resounding silence from the other end. Just when he was starting to suspect the call had dropped—his parents had pretty crap phones—he heard raucous cheers and hoots and hollers. _

_ “That’s wonderful, sweetie!” his dad exclaimed. Logan winced and pulled the phone away again. _

_ “We’re so proud of you!” his doddo seconded. _

_ “Knew you could do it.” Logan grinned despite himself, bringing the phone closer to his ear once more. “Have you told Virgil yet?” _

_ “I, um—no, not yet. He isn’t home yet.” This was a blatant lie, by the way. Virgil was in the next room over, and Logan was doing everything in his power to keep his voice low enough for it not to carry. “I’m going to tell him soon, though.” _

_ “What are you—go call him, silly! He deserves to hear this sooner than later, don’t you think?” _

_ “Yeah, I—I guess so. I’ll go call him now.” _

_ “Wonderful! We’re so proud of you, Logan.” Logan could almost hear the smile in his dad’s voice. _

_ “Love you, kid,” his doddo added. _

_ “I love you too,” Logan murmured, lowering the phone and ending the call. _

\---------

Logan is slow and careful to take a seat at his (soon to be old) desk, absorbing the feeling of the worn cushion beneath him, the way it creaks just so under his weight, the way every inch of it is so indescribably familiar after so many years of the exact same thing every day. He wonders whether it’ll still be here when he gets back, whether it’ll still be this reassuring to find such a constant when everything else could be in all kinds of turmoil. He sinks back in the seat and lifts his feet slightly, crossing them at the ankle. Something rattles on the desk, followed by a crash, then several of his (soon to be old (and probably broken)) belongings are on the floor.

“Nice going,” Roman says with a snicker, bending to gather up the mess. Among the debris are old sticky notes for past presentations, dry pens that Logan is inexplicably reluctant to throw away due to their sentimental value as contributors to some of his greatest papers, Roman, and his old backup glasses, now efficiently split down the middle.

“Oh, and I just had these repaired last year,” Logan sighs. To be fair, they’re been broken several times now—Virgil breaking them just before proposing wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence. If anything, it convinced him to start keeping them at work instead of home. Still, Logan mourns the smooth finish for a moment longer, wondering how many more things he’ll break today. Maybe he’ll break some crucial piece of the rocket and they won’t launch and he won’t go into space and he’ll go home to Virgil and they’ll sit quietly and hold each other until the moon rises above them and—

“You don’t regret this,” Logan tells himself sternly, not really caring that Roman can probably definitely hear all of it. “Stop thinking of ways to sabotage it. You want to do this and you’re happy to be doing this and it’s silly to think otherwise.”

“Yeah, you tell ’im,” Roman agrees under his breath. Logan’s cheeks flush, but he doesn’t acknowledge the awkwardness of the one-and-a-half sided conversation. He instead puts the broken glasses back in their case, where they should’ve been all along. At the very least, they would’ve been safer in there.

Too little, too late.

\---------

_ Logan leaned back on the picnic blanket—more of a towel, but who’s keeping score?—and stretched his hands behind him to feel the damp grass pressing up around them. Beside him, Virgil’s head was tilted skyward, awash in the pale light of the moon, his skin illuminated like stardust. _

_ “What do we do now?” Virgil mumbled, more to the sky than to Logan. _

_ Logan shook his head, his eyes tracing lazy ripples around the surface of the pond. “I don’t know. They don’t usually show this part in the movies.” _

_ “Maybe there’s a reason for that.” Virgil chuckled under his breath and leaned over to bump shoulders with Logan, who bumped him right back. “I mean, how are we supposed to just go home after, um, everything? Everything is different now.” _

_ “Everything is different now,” Logan agreed softly. “I guess we just keep sitting here until we feel too awkward to stay. Or until we get asked to leave for loitering too long.” _

_ “I think you’re underestimating how quickly I can feel awkward. I already feel awkward, actually, so I think you’re kind of out of luck in that regard, so jot that down.” _

_ “I’m okay with that.” Logan scooted across the blanket, fitting the side of his torso against the curve of Virgil’s body as Virgil wrapped an arm around his shoulder. _

_ “You’re okay with how awkward and weird this is?” _

_ “Are you kidding? That’s half the fun.” _

_ “I guess you’re right.” _

_ “I’m always right.” _

\---------

Still reclined at his (soon to be old) desk chair, Logan plays around on his phone and fields some of Roman’s halfhearted ramblings, waiting for the hour to tick down close enough that he wouldn’t feel foolish for heading out to the launch pad. Though he isn’t one to download many idle play apps, he has enough to keep himself entertained until he gets another text from Virgil.

Logan smiles widely as he opens it, this one a picture of Virgil posed in front of the standing mirror in their bedroom, wearing a familiar sparkling blue cardigan. (‘Baby’s first cardigan,’ as Virgil had once called it. Logan never agreed to that name.) The rip from where it got caught in his car door is almost completely repaired, and the parts that still show through look more intentional now that they’re paired with Virgil’s cocky grin and torn skinny jeans.

“Someone’s got a cutie at home,” Roman butts in, very much snooping on a text thread that he has no business seeing. Logan turns to shield his phone from view, sending off a quick and delighted response before swiveling back to glare at Roman.

“I should hardly think it’s any of your business what or where my cutie is.”

“Oh my god, you just called Virgil your cutie. I’m so telling him that, holy crap. You’re such a dork.”

“You are telling him nothing of the sort.” Though Logan’s words are calm and measured, his voice is panicked and harried as he reaches for Roman’s phone, desperate to keep him from passing his words along to Virgil. “Come on, Roman, don’t be such an ass.”

“You are what you—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, you absolute heathen.”

Roman raises his hands defensively but puts away his phone mid-text anyway, still grinning widely. “You’re such a dork, dork.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Ouch, that one came all the way out of left field in a third grader’s softball game. Got any more where that came from, or should I go ahead and start applying the aloe now?”

“Oh, just shut up.”

\---------

_ As he walked toward the car with Virgil, shopping bag draped over his arm, Logan hesitated. “You keep going, there’s just something I wanted to check on,” he said, nudging Virgil to keep moving. Virgil shrugged and continued on, accepting the bag and keys. Pausing to make sure Virgil wasn’t watching, Logan doubled back and ducked into the store, where he made a beeline for the counter. _

_ “He returns!” Micah exclaimed. Leaning forward over the counter, he propped his chin on his fist and shot Logan a broad grin. “Where’s your man, huh? How come we never saw him around the office?” _

_ “That’s actually why I came back in,” Logan admitted, staring very closely at the seams of the tiles underfoot. “I know I’ve never been terribly open with my personal life at work—” _

_ “I don’t even know what food you like,” Micah agreed. “Virgil is the only thing I’ve ever heard you talk about that isn’t work related.” _

_ “Exactly. So it’s probably pretty obvious that this falls under ‘things I wouldn’t go around sharing with coworkers,’ right?” _

_ “Right.” _

_ “So you’re going to be a nice, decent person who respects my privacy, and won’t go sharing that information with the office?” _

_ “Right.” _

_ “And that includes not telling Alex, right?” _

_ Micah’s response was notably less eager at that, but after an agonizing pause, he sighed and nodded. “Right.” _

_ With a grin and a halfhearted shrug, Logan tossed Micah a wave and headed for the door. _

\---------

Begrudgingly rising from his chair to follow Roman downstairs, Logan takes one last furtive glance at his phone, where another picture of Virgil—this one a close-up of his outfit, shimmering like the stars above—waits. He rattles off one final text as they approach the stairwell, beyond which awaits a world where Logan isn’t supposed to have his phone out. Possibly the hardest time he’ll ever have parting with the darn thing, but the moment he gets back, the first thing he’ll do is text Virgil. Or maybe call him, if he thinks Virgil will be up to a voice call.

_ I love you so, so much, _ reads Logan’s text. Impossibly cheesy, impossibly predictable, but he doesn’t have the words to encompass everything he wants to say. Frankly, he isn’t sure those words even exist.

_ Nothing else you want to tell me? _ is Virgil’s reply, and though it’s a purely text-based conversation, Logan can almost hear the sarcasm dripping from each syllable.

_ And I’ll bring you the moon. _

_ It’ll cost you the stars, nerd. Go show those space freaks who’s boss. _

Logan half-smiles, nearly ready to click off his phone as they near the exit to the stairs. Roman has been mercifully silent the whole way down, perhaps understanding exactly how much Logan needs this time.

“Just one more second,” Logan says before Roman can push open the door. He opens the text back up again, raking his eyes over the promises. They’re good, but they’re not quite enough. He types fast and careful, making sure not to let Roman see it. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.  _ No matter what happens today or tomorrow or all the way until I get back, I need you to know that I am impossibly, ridiculously proud of you and all you’ve done, and I love you far more than any distance or galaxy could begin to encompass. _

He hits send.

Then he turns off his phone.

\---------

_ Logan paced from one end of the apartment to the other. Then back to the start. He looked to the door every time it so much as creaked, every time it so much as crossed the corners of his vision, every time he took a breath, but it never revealed Virgil. Never revealed anyone. He rattled off another text, another unanswered call, but no responses from Virgil were forthcoming. His phone was silent. The apartment was silent. His head was neither silent nor loud. His head was static. His mind was static. _

Why did I say that?

_ This question hammered against the corners of Logan’s head relentlessly, beating him down from the inside. He should never have brought it up. Virgil obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and Logan pressing the matter didn’t help. It was all just a big mistake, and there was no way to take it back now. _

_ He crossed the apartment again. And paced back again. And back to the start again. _

\---------

“Okay, I’m ready,” Logan says, reaching past Roman for the door out of the stairwell. For the door into his future, actually, if you’re feeling momentous. Roman sticks an arm to the side, blocking him from leaving just yet.

“Uh, yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

“Wh—Roman, you can’t just trap me in here. They’re bound to start the three hours and holding soon, we need to go.”

“Not just yet, astro-nerd.”

“If I offer you a better nickname so you don’t have to keep using the same one, will you let me go?”

“No. You need to hug it out first.”

“I need to do nothing of the—” Before Logan can even finish his protest, Roman is wrapping him in a bear hug, squeezing him until Logan thinks his eyes might pop right out of his head. “Why are you—”

“Just take it,” Roman mumbles, holding him tighter still. “I know how much you care about your image or whatever, but no one’s here to see this. Just take the hug and know that everyone on this entire planet supports you to high heck, and know that this hug is nothing compared to how much I’m going to boa constrictor the crap out of you when you get back.”

Logan considers trying to protest further, or at least clarify that ‘boa constrictor’ is not, in fact, a verb, but decides it’s probably not worth it. He instead relaxes (only a little bit, mind you) into the embrace, feeling the weight of Roman’s entire body around him (Roman is rather on the short side) and wondering just how much he’ll miss it once gravity no longer has him in its clutches. Logan sighs and slowly, almost imperceptibly, hugs Roman back.

But if you tell anyone that, he is going to deny it.

He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

\---------

_ The walk home from Patton’s house was utter silence. Logan refused Roman’s offer to give them a ride as politely as he could, given how even the open air of the outdoors couldn’t snuff out the aching awkwardness choking every breath he took. He walked close enough that Virgil  _ could _ hold his hand, if the urge so possessed him, but Logan made no move to initiate as much. Neither did Virgil. Logan instead focused on his footsteps, on counting the gaps between cracks in the sidewalk, and wondered how fast Virgil did this route in reverse when  _ he _ ran off. _

_ Logan opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. He closed his mouth and exhaled. Still nothing. Still silence. Still static. Still nothing. With every passing moment, he felt the distance between them growing thicker, felt how certain he was that there was nothing to be done about it. _

_ And then, in the middle of the silence, he felt something. There, brushing against his hand, was one of Virgil’s fingers. Though Logan stiffened, he didn’t pull away, nor did he lean into it. He didn’t even turn his head, too nervous to look for fear of ruining it. Inch by inch, Virgil’s hand drew closer, until they were linked by their pinkies. Virgil squeezed gently, once, just once, but said nothing. Logan squeezed back. _

\---------

“Are you sure you’ve got my parent’s numbers right?” Logan is currently pestering Roman like there’s no tomorrow as he follows him out of the stairwell, with more than a little paranoia in his step. “You know what order to call them? You know what to tell my dad and what to leave out when you talk to my doddo?”

“I quadruple checked before we even left the parking lot,” Roman says coolly.

“Should’ve  _ quintuple _ checked,” Logan grumbles. “Fifth time’s the charm.”

“Fifth time’s the time you second guess yourself and get it wrong.” Roman holds his hand out expectantly, closing his fingers over Logan’s phone when he grumpily hands it over. “See, isn’t that better?”

“Maybe if I just check my texts one last—”

“Nope, you’re done. Incommunicado.”

“Oh, so you finally cracked open a dictionary like I asked?”

“Actually, I just had some Jimmy Buffett on my youtube recommendations.”

“Youtube only makes recommendations based on similar content, so unless you were already listening to James Buffett, you have no ground on which to stand right now.”

“At least I’m staying on the ground.” Roman jumps up and down a few times for emphasis, pounding his feet against the pavement. Logan ducks to the right to avoid his flying elbows. “Can’t say the same for you in a hot minute here.”

“More like a hot few hours here.” Logan glances at everything around the looming rocket ahead (definitely not at the rocket itself) and locks eyes with a tech running around with three fingers in the air beside a clenched fist. They nod at him once before vanishing behind the thing that’s about to fulfill Logan’s lifelong dream. He looks away. “Make that a hot few three hours and holding.”

“Well, let’s get a move on, Spaceman Stu. Got things to do, places to be, planets to see.”

“You did not just compare me to a McDonald’s commercial targeted at children.”

“I mean, I absolutely did just do that though, so I don’t know why you’re blatantly lying to yourself.” Roman picks up his pace, almost running for the rocket now. Logan hesitates and bounces from one foot to the other, half wanting to follow him, half wanting to turn tail and sprint home to safety. He follows Roman.

\---------

_ Logan tucked his legs up under him on the well-loved armchair in the living area, a legal pad propped on his bent knees. Sprawled out across the couch was Virgil, his head hanging past the cushion and the longer sections of his hair brushing the floor below. His face neared a flattering tone of cherry red. _

_ “That can’t be good for your blood flow,” Logan commented idly. He allowed himself a small laugh as Virgil stuck out his tongue, a face which looked all kinds of ridiculous and adorable given his current position. _

_ “My good ideas are all in my feet,” Virgil explained. “I’m sending them straight to my brain, and this helps.” _

_ “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t.” Seeing the fruitlessness of trying to convince him otherwise, Logan turned his attention back to his notepad. Several lines of messy scribbles, half-baked ideas, and innumerable attempts at improving his signature with various last names. Walders, Sandovall, Waldovall, Sanders. He made another attempt at a loopy ‘Logan Waldovall,’ but it didn’t look quite right. “Hey, love?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Which last name are we going with?” _

_ “What’re the options?” _

_ “Option one is Waldovall, option two is Sanders, and three and four are Walders and Sandovall. Or we could just pick a brand new surname out of nowhere. Now’s your chance to try out ‘danger’ as a last name. Logan and Virgil Danger.” _

_ Virgil pursed his lips and hummed, closing his eyes. Even his eyelids were turning a faint pink. “I like that last one, but hands down my parents won’t go for it. Three and four are boring. The first one’s fun to say, but there’s way too many L’s in it. I mean, we both already have an L in our first names, anyway. Just complicates it, y’know?” _

_ “Sure. I like option two, too.” Though Virgil didn’t explicitly say as much, didn’t fully commit to it, Logan got the idea pretty clear. He made another attempt at a loopy signature. ‘Logan Sanders.’ Actually, he rather liked how that one looked. He did it again, then drew a few little hearts around it. Then he felt his face burning bright red as he realized what he just did. _

_ He flipped the page and started scribbling out rough wedding vows, intently ignoring how that was no less of a cheesy thing to do than drawing little hearts around his name. He also ignored the hearts slowly filling the margins of the new page. _

\---------

Logan, as you’ve undoubtedly come to understand by now, thinks of himself as having a reputation to uphold, a fact of which he’s made no secret. A reputation of iciness and undaunted calm and generally just not caring about what happens around him, provided he comes out on top.

You’ve surely also come to understand by now that this reputation is not even a little bit accurate to how Logan really feels.

As he skulks behind Roman toward the rocket, keeping his focus forward and forcing his head not to crane up to the top of that monster of a machine because  _ he definitely doesn’t have to acknowledge it yet, _ Logan is ready to leap out of his skin. He folds his arms and digs his fingernails into his biceps, focusing on remembering to inhale. It crosses his mind that the air might taste different, too, once he leaves. Or even once he comes back, having gotten used to whatever poison Neptune has to offer. Should he be concerned about the taste of the air? What if he forgets how to breathe up there? What if he forgets how to breathe when he comes back? What if he contracts a mysterious space disease that makes him forget how to talk, and he won’t be able to tell the world about what he and his crew find up there?

“Get out of your he-ead,” Roman sings, drawing out the last word as he doubles back to bump shoulders with Logan.

“I’m not in my head,” Logan lies. He’s not very good at lying, by the way.

“I am going to put a literal padlock on your brain if that’s what it takes, my dude.” Roman throws an arm around Logan’s shoulders, using the other to grind his knuckles into Logan’s hair. A fairly impressive feat, given that Logan has a solid few inches on him. “Knock knock, anybody home? Delivery for Logan’s hopes and dreams?”

“Don’t you think you’re overselling this, just a little bit?” Logan pulls away and straightens out his hair, glancing around furtively to make sure no one important saw that. Roman doesn’t count as important, by the way.

“Not only do I not think I’m overselling this, not even just a little bit, I think I’m  _ underselling _ this,” Roman replies. “You’re acting like you’re just taking a little road trip.”

“That kind of  _ is _ what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, if the highway is rainbow road and you’re Mario Bounceboy Mario himself.”

“Jumpman.”

“Nerd.”

“Prep.”

Roman grins and does a twirl as he runs ahead again. “You say to the guy with your phone, which has your only lifeline to your Princess Peach.”

“Virgil is neither a princess nor a peach, and you aren’t supposed to have phones on, anyway, so you don’t have that lifeline, either.” Immediately after saying as much, Logan wonders whether he’ll live to regret giving Roman the job of keeping his phone safe. Maybe he should’ve left it at home with Virgil. It’s not like it really matters though, right? He’ll be back and talking with Virgil, face to face, in no time. He will.

He will.

\---------

_ Logan felt his chest seizing up as people started clearing off of the wood-tiled dance floor, giving a wide berth for him to walk through, Virgil at his side. _

_ “Don’t be nervous,” Virgil whispered, squeezing Logan’s hand between their laced fingertips. _

_ “I’m not nervous.” _

_ “Funny. I don’t believe you.” When the smallest sliver of his shoe tapped against the polished wood, Logan was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat. He held Virgil’s hand tighter as the music picked up. _

_ Chills skittered over Logan’s skin as the hesitant piano chords faded in, casting a melancholy glow of warmth over the room. The first hints of lyrics swelled in gentle waves as Virgil stopped and turned to face Logan, their arms around each other as a doleful voice sang sweetly into the air.  _ No more talk of darkness, _ it crooned,  _ forget these wide-eyed fears. _ In time with the words, Logan felt his nerves melting away, losing himself in Virgil’s eyes as the piano picked up, the chords slowly becoming insistent, pleading to be heard under the careful conversation of a melody passing overhead. By the time the orchestra found its footing beneath it all, pushing the words up like so many rafts along a wave rolling across the ocean, Logan’s skin was dancing in goosebumps. He held Virgil closer, closer, seeing nothing but Virgil’s eyes, feeling nothing but Virgil’s hands, hearing nothing but the lilting harmony from the speakers. _

Say you love me _ , the music sighed, and Virgil joined in, mouthing the words carefully and holding Logan’s gaze. Logan’s lips curved up ever so slightly as the music marched on, and he mouthed the response back, never having been more certain of anything else in his life.  _ You know I do.

\---------

“Pop quiz!” Roman shouts, running up and slapping the side of the rocket.

“Please refrain from slapping the rocket,” says the person who called three and holding, as unfazed as if Roman had eaten the uncooked noodles on display at Olive Garden.

“Pop quiz,” Roman repeats, quieter this time. Instead of slapping the rocket, he pokes it with the tip of his finger.

“Please refrain from poking the rocket.”

“Pop quiz?” Roman’s voice is a whisper as he gives the rocket an air hug. Three and holding purses their lips, but says nothing. Roman lifts his arms in a victory V. “Pop quiz!”

“Pop quiz.” Logan funnels all of his available energy into sounding unimpressed with Roman’s theatrics. It doesn’t  _ not _ work, at least.

“How big is an astronomical unit?”

“The distance between Earth and the sun.”

“Yes, exactly, almost enough space—ha, space—to encompass my stunning personality.”

“Said like a person doing a parody of a person from Texas.”

“Pop quiz part two! What is the smaller dark spot on Neptune?”

“The Small Dark Spot. Is there a reason you’re doing this, or—”

“Pop quiz part three! Why would the little mermaid be interested in Neptune’s largest moon?”

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with—”

“Answer the question, Spaceman Stu!”

“Stop recycling your nicknames, or people will realize you aren’t as creative as you claim to be. The largest moon is called Triton, which is the name of the father of Disney’s rendition of the little mermaid.”

“How many hours does it take Neptune to do a full rotation?”

“Eighteen.”

“Exactly, which makes it of legal drinking age in the United—”

“That is not correct in terms of how hours or United States laws work.”

“Neptune could drive a car if it wanted to!”

“Roman, seriously, what does this have to do—”

“Neptune is of legal age to race in Mario Kart and knock you off the rainbow road!”

Logan buries his face in his hands and shakes his head, massaging his temples.

“Three hours and counting,” three and holding calls cheerfully. Logan looks up and gives them a half smile as they flash him a thumbs up before switching back to demonstrating the time. Three fingers up, the other hand splayed and parallel to the ground. “Gettin’ close!”

“Close to pushing Roman off rainbow road myself, maybe.”

“What!”

\---------

_ Virgil tossed his controller across the couch and grumpily crossed his arms with a harrumph before throwing himself against the back cushion. “You’re super mean, y’know that?” _

_ “I know,” Logan replied as he moved to lean on the couch, still sipping from his own mug. “I’m such a meanie-pants for spilling your coffee, but again, it can’t be proven, so I guess you’re just screwed, huh?” _

_ “I want a rematch.” _

_ “And you really think I’d agree to that? You’re throwing a tantrum over me not giving you your drink, and I do not engage with tantrum throwers.” _

_ “Too bad you’re stuck with me now.” Virgil held up the band around his finger with a wide grin. “There’s no escape from this tantrum thrower. Now come get your controller, I want to destroy you in smash bros.” _

_ “As long as—” _

_ “You are not playing as Link.” _

_ “He’s the only one I like, though. We’ve got the same first initial.” _

_ “Now who’s throwing a tantrum?” _

_ Logan glanced over at Virgil, who was still pressing himself back against the couch cushions. His legs almost looked to be shaking from the tension of holding himself in place. “You know, I think it’s still you.” _

_ “Whatever. Just grab your controller, okay?” _

_ With a soft smile and another sip of his drink, Logan finally took back his seat and reached for his remote, which Virgil promptly snatched and threw across the room—aimed for a soft landing on the armchair, of course, so it wouldn’t break. _

_ “You know, I think you’re right. I  _ am _ still throwing a tantrum!” _

\---------

“I mean, it’s basically just a really fancy car, right?”

Logan watches Roman circle one of the bases holding up the rocket again and shakes his head, sidestepping to get out of the way of another tech. “That statement was not even a little bit correct, let alone realistic. I’m personally kind of offended you would even say something like that. Derivative at best. There’s not even a source for you to be derivative of, either. It’s derivative of stupidity, and that in itself is derivative. Roman, you’re derivative.”

Roman expertly ignores Logan’s trailed-off rambles in favor of the actual point of his response. “It’s like a souped up motorcycle, though. It’s got an engine, and metal bits, and, um—”

“You are digging yourself a deeper hole than should be possible. Put the shovel down and stop talking.”

“Like a really cool minivan, like the soccer mom all the other kids are jealous of. Like the team mom who brings cookies and gatorade instead of orange slices and water, and she gets in a fistfight with the only team dad who brings brownies and powerade.”

“No.”

“Like the vulture rolling up on a sick motorcycle and being cool all over the missing persons case location.”

“Just because I’ve watched  _ Brooklyn 99 _ does not mean I go around referencing it all the time like that.”

“One singular time does not count as all the time. Like driving a retro mustang down an old country back road with the top down and your hair all majestic in the wind.”

“No.”

“Like slugging your friend when you see a punch buggy drive by.”

“It’s called a slug bug, and no.”

“Like Mayor Dewey driving around his campaign van.”

“Please stop making pop culture references.”

“Please stop stifling my creative whimsy.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I take pride in that.”

“Do you even know the meaning of the word?”

“I don’t have to to be proud of it.”

“I really think you might want to look it up, though.”

“And yet, here I am. Doing none of that. We love that for myself.”

Logan wonders whether time dilation is observable over the span of three Earth hours.

\---------

_ Virgil just about bounded out of the car dealership when Kathy mentioned taking a walk around the showcase to see their options up close. A bemused smile found a home on Logan’s lips as he stood to follow Virgil at a much more leisurely place, not having expected him to be so excited to look at a bunch of cars. Or maybe Virgil was just sick of sitting still for so long—Logan was beginning to feel a bit jumpy himself. _

_ “Most of the vehicles fitting your range and preferences will be in this general area,” Kathy explained, gesturing toward a few modest clusters of cars. Virgil strode right past the soccer mom vans and the less showy sports cars, looking at the basic models that Logan noticed more of on the streets on their way here. “Keep in mind that if there’s a particular color you have in mind that you don’t see, we might be able to bend around and find one at our sister locations.” _

_ “Thank you,” Logan said, still watching Virgil dart around. “That one on the papers you showed us inside, is that what you would recommend for a first car? I have my license, of course, and all of the appropriate paperwork, but it  _ has _ been quite some time since I last operated the same vehicle for more than a week straight.” _

_ “Mooching off the parents?” _

_ “Something like that.” _

_ In a blink, Virgil was back at Logan’s side, tugging on his arm like an excited child at the grocery store. “It’s definitely outside our price range, and you probably wouldn’t be caught dead driving it, anyway, but I want you to come see this one.” _

_ Logan shot Kathy an amused look before giving in to Virgil’s insistence. “Well, let’s go have a look, then.” _

\---------

“Alright,” Logan says, more to himself than to Roman, “final check time. Final check. Here we go, checking the final things that need to be checked. Is what we’re checking. Is the final things.”

“What was that about not being nervous?” Roman asks as he trails Logan’s frantic pacing circles. “It’s several people’s literal jobs to have checked these things already. Several times over, in fact. You’ve survived to three and counting, pal, just calm down and take it in. This should be exciting, you know?”

“I’ll be excited when I’m on the surface of Neptune,” Logan retorts, very much nervous and very much showing it. “Should I have made a paper checklist? Should I be physically crossing things off? I feel like I should be physically crossing things off.”

“People have already physically crossed those things off for you. It’s not your job to be panicky about this, okay? It’s your job to be gearing up, getting pumped, you know?” Roman’s voice, now quickly moving from teasing and into the realm of forced encouragement, does nothing to ease Logan’s nerves.

“Why didn’t you tell me not to agree? Obviously you knew something would be going wrong, or you would’ve said yes to the mission yourself. I think I made a mistake, Roman, oh man, I think I need to back out, I think I need to go back home and forget I ever even  _ thought _ about—”

“You don’t need to be doing any of that,” Roman interrupts. “I said no because this was not what I’ve been going for my entire life. For you, it is. This is all you’ve ever wanted, yeah? Savor that, just, like, you gotta make the most of this. You don’t know when you’re gonna be able to do this sort of thing again, if ever.”

“Maybe,” Logan says noncommittally. He wonders how long it’ll take for him to believe that this is really happening.

He hopes it’ll be soon.

\---------

_ As they drew near the checkout lanes following the warehouse aisles at Ikea, Logan was more than a little impressed by how well they’d managed to make out. That is, holding zero things requiring a purchase. Nothing like keeping a wallet shut to inspire saving money, right? _

_ This mindset only really works if you ignore all the exciting things you actually  _ do _ want to buy. _

_ “We have to buy something,” Virgil grumbled. “We’re running out of stuff to buy, and walking out empty handed is no fun. Plus, they might think we stole something. Think of how suspicious we look, only getting a cinnamon roll and walking the whole store and not making a single purchase!” _

_ Logan sighed and shrugged, glancing at the aisles around them. “If you can find something under twenty dollars before we reach the cash registers, I’ll buy it for you. It has to be a necessity, though. We do kind of have a car to pay for now.” _

_ “Done and done.” In an instant, Virgil was gone and back, now clutching a stuffed shark in his hands. “I want this one.” _

_ “That is not a necessity. How much does that thing even cost?” _

_ Virgil forced a pout and held the toy closer, tucking it under his chin. “Her name is Maria and she’s nineteen ninety-nine and I love her and that makes her a necessity.” _

_ “You’ve been spending too much time with Patton.” Logan sighed again, then glanced forward to see the checkouts getting pretty darn close. Too close to make an argument for one of the incredibly few things for sale between there and the door. “Fine. You can get Maria.” Virgil grinned wide, holding the shark to his heart all the way to the car. Suffice it to say, a similar smile wormed its way onto Logan’s face when he saw how stupid happy the shark made Virgil. _

\---------

“Yeah, um, I think we should probably get a move on,” Roman says, tugging at the sleeve of Logan’s cardigan. “Think they want us to get on out of the way.”

Logan nods blankly, his hand resting gently along the side of the craft. He doesn’t remember putting it there. Three and holding is nowhere to be seen, or at least isn’t close enough to yell at him for it. The surface is so smooth, so solid, so impossible to imagine it ripping through the layers of the atmosphere and breaking free from the shackles of gravity and earthen physics. He certainly doesn’t step away from it, and he’s kind of sort of looking at it now, so that must count for something.

“Logan?”

“Yes.”

“We should get moving?”

“We should.” He still doesn’t move.

“Alright, okay, come on.” Logan barely registers Roman’s words as he distantly feels a hand clamp around his wrist, pulling it off the rocket. “Onward to your future, which starts inside that building way over there.”

Logan blinks and follows him blindly, not really processing his words until he hears a sound akin to a monster grumbling from the depths of hell.

“What was that?” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice saying more than two words.

“My stomach.”

“And you have nothing further to say on the topic?”

“Uh, no? Should I?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Why?”

“Because you should be concerned! What did you even have for breakfast today?”

“Expired toaster waffles, peanut butter, and sugar.”

“Expired waff—what do you mean, sugar? What does that even mean?”

“It means I toasted two expired waffles, slapped some peanut butter on one side of each, four spoonfuls of sugar on each, and slapped those puppies together. Peanut butter sugar sandwich. Breakfast of champions.”

“You literally disgust me.”

“What! My good sir, I should hardly think my diet to be the one under fire here!”

“Be the one under—Roman, have you even heard a single word out of your mouth today?”

“Yes, and every single one tasted like sugar and peanuts. I don’t think I see your point here.”

“Never mind.” Shocking though it may be, Logan still hasn’t learned when to give up on a pointless argument with Roman. Mostly because those arguments tend to be one-sided and completely irrational, but still.

\---------

_ Logan strode over to the sink, taking Virgil’s empty plate on the way. With a pitiful microwave breakfast sinking heavy down his stomach, he flicked on the faucet and ran it over the few crumbs that managed to escape the vacuum that was Virgil’s mouth. _

_ “Oh, hey, when do you—” Virgil began, immedaitely cutting himself off when Logan flicked some water in his face. By accident, of course—he was merely surprised by Virgil’s sudden and quiet appearance—but it still looked pretty darn funny. “Dude, hey!” _

_ “Hey, dude.” Logan ducked as Virgil swatted a hand over his head, but rather than back away like a grump, Virgil doubled down. He reached for the stream of water, drenching his hand in it and shaking it in Logan’s face. Logan wrinkled his nose and squealed childishly before angling the plate under the spout so it streamed out and splattered over Virgil’s torso. _

_ “Uncalled for!” _

_ “You started it.” _

“You _ started it!” _

_ “No, but I’ll finish it!” Just to prove as much, Logan turned down the pressure of the faucet, hard and fast enough that the sudden change sent water lapping at the upper edges of the sink. He pulled off the detachable faucet and set it to sprinkler, aiming it at Virgil. “Beg for mercy.” _

_ “I would never.” _

_ Logan shrugged, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “Suit yourself.” And he turned on the water, full force. His own cackles drowned out Virgil’s delighted shrieks. _

\---------

“So,” Roman says, not at all being casual or cool about it, “do we count as being friends now?”

“I—what?”

“Us. Me, you, the ol’ work colleagues. Do we count as friends? Will you admit now that we’re friends?”

“That’s hardly an appropriate question. I mean, I cannot think of a single scenario in which that question would be expected or understandable to field.”

“You don’t like me even a little bit?”

“I don’t think—”

“Then stop thinking.”

Logan cocks his head to the side, hesitating at the entrance to the building. It’s odd, isn’t it, how many people have said that to him? Provided ‘more than one person’ counts as odd, at least. “What’s your point here, Roman?”

“To get you to admit that you’ve grown emotionally as a person over the last few years, at least enough to accept that you’re allowed to be friends with more people than just your husband.”

To be completely honest, Logan was not prepared for that answer. He was expecting something more along the lines of ‘I felt like messing with you on your big day.’

Roman holds an arm out to block the door—apparently his favorite strategy in prolonging conversations today—and turns back to look at Logan. “You’ve never wanted to admit that you’re human, Lo, but you do realize you don’t have to be stone cold all the time, right? You’re allowed to feel things.”

“What is it with everyone running around and giving me permission to have emotions?” Logan mutters, very intentionally dodging the rest of Roman’s earnest words. “Can’t everyone just drop that stuff at the door?”

“Aw, now that’s no fun.”

“Great. Now that we’ve got that weird little stint sorted, if you would be so kind as to let me—”

“Nope. Friendship time. We already hugged it out, now you gotta tell me you think of me as a friend.”

“This sounds like blackmail.”

“Blackmail is one of the key foundations for a solid friendship.”

“It really isn’t, though.”

“How would you know, if we aren’t friends?”

“If I saw we’re friends, will you let me inside so I can go get changed?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. We’re friends.”

“Aw, Logan, we’re besties!”

With that, Roman wraps Logan in yet another bone-crushing hug, and Logan wonders whether he could be prosecuted for manslaughter if he’s on a different planet by the time law enforcement found out.

\---------

_ Once Virgil was sufficiently distracted by whatever turn Patton’s topic of conversation had taken—Logan could never seem to keep up with that guy—Logan sneaked away from the table under the excuse of wanting another coffee. This, of course, meant he was stuck taking a second round of orders from the rest of the table, but it wasn’t too much of a hassle. Actually, it helped him with what he was trying to accomplish. _

_ “And twenty dollars on this gift card, please. A separate receipt, too, if that’s not too much trouble,” Logan said, offering the barista a weak smile for the four drinks he’d just ordered. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too annoyed by the task, given that the cafe wasn’t too busy yet. Late enough in the day to miss the morning commute, early enough that high schoolers hadn’t escaped to their coffee hangouts yet. _

_ “No problem! Anything else for you today?” _

_ “Nope, that, um, that should do it. Thank you.” _

_ “Sure thing! That’ll be thirty five dollars even, whenever you’re ready.” The barista smiled brightly and gestured toward the card reader before turning to the bar, presumably to get started on Virgil’s ungodly order of pure caffeine and sugar. Once the register spat out two receipts, Logan pocketed them with the gift card, masking the outline with his phone. _

_ Though Virgil always accepted Logan’s attempts to keep costs down to the bare necessities, Logan couldn’t help it this time, too enamoured by the gift card selection. Basic and silly, sure, but he adored the design on this one—blues and greens slashing like lightning across the facade, with looping curls of purple spelling out the word ‘love,’ surrounded by matching purple hearts. So ridiculously, utterly cheesy, but Logan couldn’t quite find it in himself to care. _

_ Drinks in hand, Logan used the distraction of the delivery to sneak the gift card into the pocket of Virgil’s cardigan. He couldn’t wait to see Virgil’s face when he found it. _

\---------

Logan pulls open the door to the crew quarters and makes a beeline for the closet against the left wall, Roman hot on his heels.

“Getting excited? Or is it all still nerves, bestie?”

“Yes, no, and I never gave you explicit permission to call me that.”

“Can I call you bestie?”

“No.”

“Capisce, caposh, cohort.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right, ix-nay on the ohort-cay, comrade.”

Logan rolls his eyes as he tugs open the closet door. Pretty barren, to be honest, save for a few pieces of a uniform and an abundance of empty coat hangers. He takes his time leafing through the set, tracing his finger along his name embroidered on the emblem on the outer shirt’s left breast pocket.

“Pretty sleek get-up there, compadre.”

“Yeah.” It’s less of an acknowledgement of Roman’s words, more of a choked exhale at the fabric beneath his hands. Logan blinks back tears he wasn’t expecting, releasing the uniform to press a fist against his mouth. “Yes, it is.”

“Hey, uh, comate? You good there?”

“Good. Yes. Good, um, great, even. I’m good. Very, really good.”

“So, compatriot!” Roman’s voice ramps up a solid two clicks, booming in Logan’s ears. At the feeling of Roman slinging an arm around his shoulders again, Logan shakes his head and drops his fist, sniffing hard. Roman lowers his tone this time, much more gentle, much more—well, much more  _ not _ like himself. Much more sincere. “Was it worth it?”

“Was it worth what?”

“All of it, everything. Working yourself to the bone every night, dealing with having me as your closest confidant, all the stress, all the hours, all of that. Was it worth it?”

Logan’s eyes refocus on his name, on the elegant slope of the dark blue letters against the pure white patch. It all goes blurry at the edges, just enough for Logan to know the tears are back, but he doesn’t blink them away this time. “Yeah. Yeah, it was worth it.”

\---------

_ Logan always fancied himself as being pretty good at falling asleep quickly. It held up through his childhood, it help up when he sat awake in the middle of the night with inexplicable sweat racing down his back, it held up when he crashed after a long night of homework in college, it’s held up through the work his bosses liked to pile on him at NASA, and it’s held up his whole life. Excluding tonight, of course. _

_ He curled up in a ball on his side of the bed, the covers somewhere near its foot as he stared at the darkness in front of him, above him, on him. Even the wall was too far to see, the moon too small to lend any light to the room. He stared harder, the darkness dancing and morphing into grotesque, nonsensical shapes as his eyes tried to convince him there was something worth seeing in the inky emptiness, but only silence greeted his ears. _

_ Though he tried all the usual tricks—a rare fallback, given how few times he actually  _ needed _ those tricks—nothing worked. Not counted and even breaths, not imagining threads of energy spiraling out through his toes, not even going so far as to label sheep with jumbo sharpies. He was awake, and it sucked, and Virgil seemed none too intent to join him tonight, and that sucked too. _

_ Once he finally fell asleep, it was awful and restless, and he wasn’t entirely sure that all of his consciousness had actually clocked out for the night. It certainly didn’t seem that way, if his harried and broken dreams were any indication. _

_ Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed. _

\---------

“Just go get changed, chumaroo,” Roman groans, yanking Logan away from his distracted staring contest with how that lapel will rest just so atop his chest. “Running out of friendship names that start with ‘c’ here, my good cuh-dude.”

“You already broke the pattern. ‘Chumaroo’ begins with a digraph including ‘c,’ sure, but it doesn’t follow the alliteration of comrade and cohort.”

“But you didn’t deny our friendship status.”

Logan rolls his eyes and pulls the door shut between them, to get away from the conversation if nothing else.

It’s not a flattering uniform, to say the least, but that should really come as no surprise, what with the puffy legs, the weird seams drawing up to the navel, the puffy arms, the heavy console on the chest piece—it’s a whole mess, all of it. But Logan loves it to death.

He loves the oversized boots, the garish buckles strapping his feet in, the patches crawling up his biceps, the white fabric that would look more at home on a bed in an elderly care facility. He ghosts his gloved fingertips over his bare face, feeling the crinkle and flex of the fabric and imagining the helmet that’s not long off, soon to be the only thing protecting him from an uncaring universe of glory and marvel and awesome horrors, an ocean of stars sprawled out in front of him like so many galaxies just  _ begging _ to be explored, all laid out for the taking, for  _ his _ taking, if he only reaches a little further past possibility and into the infinite cosmos of—

Logan scowls, ripped out of his daydream for what’s not the first (and what certainly won’t be the last) time, courtesy of Roman. Well, courtesy of Roman’s phone.

“Better get that, don’t you think?” Logan groans softly when it rings a third time. “Or how about you just turn it off? You’re not supposed to have those on this close to the launchpad, anyway.”

“It’s just Patton. He wants to facetime, thinks this is the closest he’ll ever get to seeing a ‘real-life rocketship!’” Even through the door, Logan can almost hear Roman wrinkling his nose to mimic Patton’s voice. “His words, not mine, bee-tee dub dubs. Dubz with a ‘z.’ Think Gazebo’d be cool with me showing off the sitch?”

“You did not just say ‘sitch.’”

“Says who?”

“Says the guy stuck with a  _ Kim Possible _ fan club reject as his closest friend.”

The closet door slams open, revealing Roman with wide eyes and a smile bigger than the sun. “Logan! You called me your bestie!”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“You absolutely did, you absolute… Um, you—you absolute…” Roman’s voice trails off as his eyes sweep over Logan’s uniform. His mouth drops ever so slightly, his lips parting just enough for Logan to feel (and, unfortunately, smell) some morning breath drifting across his nose. “You—wow. I mean, if—if Virgil could see you now, he would just—wow.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees at last, glancing himself over. “Wow.”

\---------

_ The brief minutes between leaving Virgil and starting the car were some of the only silences Logan could find anymore. He got to wake up beside Virgil, he left on time, it seemed like Virgil was over his attitude from the night before, everything should’ve felt right. Well, as right as right could feel. _

_ As he stepped out of the stairwell and strode from the lobby into the sun, Logan allowed himself a few deep breaths, feeling the warmth of the morning air wrap itself like a heavy coat around his shoulders. Beneath the reassuring atmosphere that circled his head, a fog of Virgil’s voice with nothing in particular to pick out nor focus on, Logan found his thoughts shaving away at the edges, spiraling down a drain until only peace and emptiness dared remain. And though he was empty, though he was exhausted, though he was completely and utterly spent in every way imaginable, there was something undeniably reassuring about that weight. Something undeniably reassuring about the world spinning on without a care for his situation. Something undeniably reassuring about knowing this sort of thing has happened before, and knowing this sort of thing would happen again, and knowing this sort of thing would find its place. _

_ He started the car. _

\---------

“Hold up, hold up,” Roman stammers as Logan attempts to step out of the closet (literally speaking, not figuratively. He’s been out since before he knew there even was a closet). “Photo op, I can’t  _ not _ show this to Virgil.”

“Please don’t do a photo op, I really don’t want to—and you’re doing a photo op. Cool. Very cool. I did not consent to this.”

“Just shut up and smile pretty-pretty.” Roman grins wickedly as he wields his phone, bouncing from a crouch to his toes and back down, now sprawled out on his side as he sings about getting the ‘perfect angle.’ Logan goes to cross his arms and ignore the whole shebang, but Roman shoos him back into a relaxed stance. “Come on, the camera loves you! You’re gorgeous, darlin’!”

“I feel like I’ve already told you today that you aren’t from Texas. Is this your way of saying you need another reminder? I would’ve thought once would be enough.”

“I’m allowed to say darlin.’ It’s not a crime to be cultured.”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re calling it now. Is it a crime to be getting on my last nerve?”

“Here, wait, I’m sending them to Virgil. Bet he screams. Bet he loves them. Bet he sings your undying praises.”

“Virgil is contractually obligated to love me. We have a certificate saying so and everything.”

“Bet you set it on fire the day you got it so he couldn’t try to return you for a better model.”

“Bet he locked it in a safe to guarantee  _ you _ wouldn’t try to pull something like that for a one-off joke.”

“Fair play, but ouch. You really think I’d do that?”

“You’re the one that made the suggestion, bud—” Logan cuts himself off, suddenly all too aware of how close he’d come to calling Roman ‘buddy.’ At least he didn’t call him ‘bestie.’ That’s a mistake he’d never live down. “We need to go. They’re probably already near to two hours and counting.”

“That’s not an official time frame. Nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

Logan is very nervous.

It is very obvious.

\---------

_ Logan was quickly growing tired of these nightly mood swings from Virgil. It was genuinely impressive, he thought, how adamant Virgil was about ignoring how hard a time Logan had with making it home early every night. Of course, Logan wasn’t allowed to bring up that sort of discussion, since it would inevitably lead to another argument about their difference in careers and lifestyles, and Logan honestly just did not feel like dealing with that. _

_ So rather than wake up in a shroud of warmth beside his husband, Logan woke up alone on a mattress, frigid and stale with sweat. He picked up his clothes from the day before, abandoned on the floor with such carelessness that Logan half expected to see something hiding in the closet and snickering at the manufactured chaos. A tornado monster, perhaps. But no, no, it was only Logan’s demeanor last night that allowed the room to look like this. _

_ For fear of the drawers and doors creaking loud enough to wake Virgil in the next room, Logan tugged on his dirty clothes, deeming them clean enough for a second go-around. As long as no one looked too closely or inhaled too deeply, that is. He smoothed out the wrinkles as he padded for the door, opening it as slowly as he could manage and wincing at every slight squeak of the hinges. There on the couch was Virgil, still asleep beneath Logan’s torn cardigan. Logan shuffled quietly past him, blowing Virgil an air kiss before exiting the apartment and locking the door behind him. _

\---------

Logan is very, very nervous. Every step he takes is off-balance, every breath he breathes is soaked in sweat, every move he makes is a mistake and he knows it and it is merely a fool’s errand to pretend otherwise.

“I—I don’t think I can do this, Roman,” Logan finally chokes out, his vision tunneling. “I know I can’t, actually, I mean, what was I even thinking? Just look at this outfit, it’s ridiculous, I can’t just—I can’t, Roman, I can’t and I couldn’t and I won’t and this was all a really, really bad idea.”

“Jeez, tell us how you really feel,” Roman mumbles. Logan blinks, struggling to see the elbow hovering in front of him. “Here, c’mon. I won’t make you hold my hand, but you’ll feel better. Something steady to ground you, no pun intended. Pun a little bit intended, actually, I changed my mind.”

Logan shakes his head, blinking faster faster faster and stepping slower slower slower, almost at a standstill by the time he thinks to fumble for Roman’s arm. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I mean, I’m not—”

“You do so know, Logan, you’ve known this since forever. You can, you will, and you are. This is absolutely everything you’ve ever wanted in your entire life, and quitting would be a disservice to yourself, not to mention me and Patton and Virgil. I mean, imagine telling  _ him _ you chickened out. That’s practically grounds for divorce right there.”

Logan manages to force out a laugh through his haze at that, shaking his head just a little bit less now. “But what if something goes—”

“It won’t, I promise.” Logan’s hand finally finds purchase on Roman’s arm. It almost feels alien, so to speak, having his bulky glove separating them like this. “Logan, you should be enjoying this. I mean, hey, what if nothing goes wrong? What if it turns out amazing? What if it’s absolutely everything you’ve dreamed it would be and more? You should be enjoying this, Lo. Feel the ground under those god-awful boots, feel the wind—well, air-conditioning—blowing across your face, feel the planet spinning beneath you, and tell me you aren’t just a little bit excited to do this today.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Logan sighs, his lips curling ever so slightly despite himself.

“And why can’t you tell me that?”

“Because it’d be a lie. Because I’m excited beyond belief. Because, I mean, hell, Roman, I’m doing this.”

“I mean, hell, Logan, you’re doing this.” Logan’s smile widens, and without the fuzziness in his head, without the buzzing in his limbs, without the panic lancing through his veins, the moment would be almost perfect.

All it’s missing is Virgil.

Well, not entirely missing Virgil. After all, Logan still has his heart, and Virgil is the only one allowed in to touch that thing.

Logan’s smile would easily dwarf Neptune right about now.

\---------

_ Once the adrenaline rush finally finished having its way with Logan’s veins, he rested his head against the back of the chair and ran over the presentation in his head. It didn’t go too poorly, relatively speaking. The director seemed happy enough with it, Roman didn’t have any corrections—genuine or otherwise—and even the director’s lackeys appeared pleased with what they saw. Logan fumbled a pass for his notecards and barely saved the few that leaped out of the stack and raced for the floor. _

_ “What’re you doing now?” Roman asked, watching Logan flip through the stack and put it back in order. _

_ “Seeing where I could improve for next time, fixing stupid spelling errors that would cost me my dignity if anyone saw them, that sort of thing.” As he said that second part, Logan took a pen to his current card and made a correction, underlining it twice. “Can never be too careful.” _

_ “I really think you can, though.” Roman reached out a hand, palm up, but Logan ignored it. It took Roman wiggling his fingers, obnoxiously clearing his throat, and rapping his knuckles on the table to realize Logan would not be relinquishing the cards. So instead, Roman snatched them out of his hand. _

_ “What—hey, I was using those!” _

_ “And now you’re not. I mean, c’mon, you’re never going to give that presentation again. There’s no reason to. Why bother correcting the mistakes now?” _

_ Logan stared at Roman, puzzled. “Ignoring the obvious answer that these might one day go up in a museum, it’s so I can improve myself for future presentations, of course.” _

_ “But you already did awesome on this one.” _

_ Logan inclined his chin, but didn’t bring it back down for a full nod. If he had less resolve, he might’ve even smiled. “So naturally, it should follow that I’ll have to do even  _ more _ awesome on the next one.” _

\---------

Out the door and onto the tarmac, Logan is linked to Roman’s arm, focusing on keeping his feet on track so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the reality of everything happening around him. His other crew members trickling out, some of the techs milling around the craft, the enormity of the—

Yeah, that. Logan isn’t acknowledging any of that.

“Hey,” Roman murmurs, tugging his arm closer to his chest. Logan glances over to see him jutting his chin toward a very important person lingering near the entrance to the craft. That is, the director. The person who put him on this mission. “Wanna go talk to your best friend?”

“He isn’t my best friend.”

“Right, because  _ I’m _ your best friend.”

“You are not.”

Roman grins and shakes his arm free, using it to give Logan a firm shove forward. “Go talk to him. Bet he’s got, like, major genius old guy wisdom to drop before you go.”

“I’m not going up there alone.”

“You don’t want to talk to the bossman one-on-one? Lame.” Roman gives Logan another good-natured shove before linking arms with him again, barreling for the director.

“One of my favorite astronauts!” the director exclaims as they draw near. His eyes barely skate over Roman’s face before recentering on the blatant fear in Logan’s. “Hello, Roman.”

“Hey, Z!” The enthusiasm in Roman’s voice is undeniably forced, but Logan elects not to comment on it. He also elects not to comment on the expression that flits over the director’s face at the nickname. “Y’allready to do this thing?”

“That’s not a real word,” Logan pipes up.

“Oh, sure it is. You all is y’all, y’all all ready, y’allready. I’m a wordsmith.”

“Better than a nerdsmith.” Logan bites his lip, uncertain whether the pun actually landed as well as it sounded in his head. Probably not. It didn’t even sound that good in his head, anyway.

The director hums an odd little noise in the back of his throat, but says nothing. Logan tries again.

“So, um, everything set to go? All the theoreticals still work out? We’re not going to, say, explode between the stitches in the fabric of space?”

“Everything works out. You are not going to, say, explode between the stitches in the fabric of space.”

“You actually said your fear out loud,” Roman stage whispers, bouncing on his toes. “Looks like you finally grew up, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Logan cocks his head to the side and glances past the director at the entrance to the rocket. Nice.

\---------

_ Shocking though it may be, Logan was not fond of being left alone. _

_ Well, no, that’s not entirely true. If it was on his own terms, he was more than happy to be left alone. He preferred it, in fact. In cases like this, however, he found it trivial and frustrating. _

_ Virgil was out of sight of Logan’s position at the cafe table, presumably leaning up against the car and waiting for Logan come out so they could enjoy a silent and uncomfortable trip home. Roman and Patton were surely well beyond the parking lot, making a beeline for any location that wasn’t Logan and Virgil’s stewing argument. Only at a pause for now, but sure to implode on itself once reignited. _

_ Logan lowered his head to the table, pressing his cheek to the surface and watching the lazy clouds drift by overhead. It sure would be nice to float alongside them someday. _

\---------

“Up and at ’em, then?” a new voice cuts in. Logan turns to see two more people walking up, both in the highest form of couture imaginable. That is, uniforms identical to his own. Eileen and Jackson, the other two thirds of Logan’s crew. The higher two thirds, technically, with Eileen as the operator and Jackson as the commander, given their training session positions and respective expertise. Or lack thereof, in Logan’s case. Eileen claps her hands together and grins. “Are we so excited?”

“We are  _ so _ excited,” the second person—Jackson—says. He stretches his arms over his head and leans to the side with a yawn.

“How about all that training?” Roman breathes, glancing Jackson over. He sticks his hand out, a broad smile forming on his face when Jackson shakes it. “Hi, I’m Roman. It’s a pleasure. Logan’s told me next to nothing about you, because he’s a terrible best friend.”

“I’m not your best friend.”

“Aren’t you dating that Patton fellow?” the director cuts in, looking at the way Roman still hasn’t dropped his death grip on Jackson’s hand.

Roman wrinkles his nose and scowls, finally freeing Jackson to wave his hands as if to banish the notion. Just out of sight, Jackson winces and rubs at his wrist, flexing his fingers. “Ew, no. Patton’s been my other best friend since forever. We’re basically brothers. Don’t be gross, Gazebo.”

The director raises his hands in defense and shrugs, stepping back from the entrance. “Alright, no harm meant. We should be nearing around twenty and holding soon, so Roman, if you would kindly get out of Jackson’s way so I can do their final briefings?”

Roman steps back sheepishly, watching Jackson move closer—entirely too close for Logan’s comfort, by the way. Logan scoots to the left.

“Think we could do them from inside the craft?” Eileen pipes up, peeking over Jackson’s shoulder. “Full experience for the newbie, y’know?”

“You’ve only been into space once,” Jackson teases. “You’re basically a newbie, too.”

“Says the guy with two whole missions under his belt. Careful your head don’t get too big, or the helmet might not fit.”

“Just! Get in the craft.” The director pinches the bridge of his nose and looks skyward, sighing loudly. The crew scurries to comply, though Logan does hang back for a moment. He looks to Roman, who flashes a double thumbs-up.

“You’ve got this,” Roman says. “Your horizons have never been broader.”

“I’ve got this,” Logan echoes. He holds back from repeating the second half right in front of the man who criticized him for the very same thing. He’s totally got this.

Totally.

He steps over the threshold.

\---------

_ Logan didn’t sleep after the talking-to from the director or the argument with Roman or the smashing of his treasured mug, but that’s nothing new. The only new development was how broken he felt without Virgil there to help him. Virgil, of course, was peacefully asleep in their bed, nothing so daring as a sound passing through the door. Whether this meant that Virgil was good at sleeping soundly or that Virgil wasn’t asleep either, Logan didn’t feel comfortable investigating. Though everything that happened in this apartment could be defined as his business—he did foot the bills, after all—he hardly thought he had the right to go barging in on Virgil. Most nights, it felt less like he lived in his apartment and more like Virgil was letting him crash nearby. _

_ Well, not most nights. Very few nights, actually. Logan just tended to find the harsher nights standing out more recently, hammering down harder on his resolve with every passing day. As of late, it was taking more and more positive days, or even slightly-better-than-bad days, to drown out the ache of the hard ones. This day in particular would probably take ages to wear off completely, Logan could almost feel it. Still no sound came from the bedroom, so Logan shifted to his side and rested his head against the arm of the couch. Despite his best efforts, sleep continued to evade him. He sighed into the darkness, but his eyes would not close. _

\---------

Logan is panicking.

Logan is panicking very, very much.

Twenty minutes and counting, and he can feel his heart ricocheting around inside his chest. No amount of training could’ve prepared him for the real thing, not even when it literally hasn’t started yet.

“Hey, newbie,” Eileen says, leaning forward against her restraints and snapping her fingers to get Logan’s attention. The sound doesn’t carry quite right with the gloves on, but the idea is there. “It’s not as scary as you think it is. They’re probably closing the vent valves and starting the thermal conditioning right now, so no matter what, there’s nothing you can do to chicken out now.”

“I’m sure that’s very reassuring,” Jackson mutters. “Please note the sarcasm in my voice here. I’m trying to get the point across that that is not a helpful thing for you to say.”

“Why not? Literally anything newbie does now would be futile, so he might as well just accept his fate.”

“His fate? Eileen, you make it sound like he isn’t coming back.”

“Oh, he’s coming back. The only question is how many pieces he’ll return in.”

Logan does not particularly like where this conversation is going. “So what all have you heard about the wormhole? Beyond what we discussed in our training sessions, obviously.”

“Not too much.” Eileen flexes her fingers and shakes her hands, jostling Jackson in the process. “Most of what they hammered out was just the basics, I mean, the ground launch sequencer should figure out most of our trajectory, and the rest is just rocket science.”

“The basics,” Jackson reiterates.

“The basics.”

“The basics.” This conversation did not help Logan’s nerves in the slightest.

A voice crackles to life in the chamber—the director, probably on his way to the go/no-go launch poll. “Hey, crew. We’re at nine minutes and holding, and Katie-Lee is determining your final launch window now. Just go ahead and strap in, and I’ll reconvene with you shortly.”

“This is the fun part!” Jackson whisper-shouts, now bouncing in his seat. It’s quite a sight, to be perfectly frank, as the seats have them on their backs and facing the sky, so it looks less like a giddy bounciness and more like frantic headbanging at a rock and roll concert.

“The fun part?” For all the stars in the sky, Logan cannot keep the dread out of his voice. “What do we do for the fun part?”

“We wait.” Eileen and Jackson saying this in unison does nothing for Logan’s outlook. Maybe that’s just the price of achieving his dream—being scared shitless, right up until the moment it happens.

\---------

_ “I mean, it was weird, right?” Logan was more talking aloud than actually asking, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little relieved when Roman dignified him with a response. _

_ “Pretty darn heckin’ stinkin’ weird.” _

_ “One clarification would’ve sufficed. He really thinks he can pull off a mission like this? It wasn’t you two in cahoots making up a big goof to mess with me?” _

_ “It was not us two in cahoots making up a big goof to mess with you. The director genuinely thinks he can get us—well, whoever ends up on the crew, at least—through a theoretical tunnel and to the farthest reaches of our solar system.” _

_ “Do you believe he can do it?” _

_ “I believe that, with the right crew, it can be done.” _

_ “And who might the right crew consist of?” _

_ “Well, you, obviously. And you’d need me as your right hand man if you want it to go off smoothly.” _

_ Logan snorted as he pulled his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, you go ahead and keep believing that.” _

\---------

“So,” Logan says, his voice cracking, “how did you two get tagged for this?”

“My second mission was her first,” Jackson says with a head tilt toward Eileen. “We dealt with a crap ton of malfunctions—super ridiculous, actually, how much went wrong. I mean, you’d think Eileen was bad luck or something.”

“Or you’d think I was a stellar performer under pressure and that I saved the entire mission,” Eileen retorts. “Anyway, we did so well that it must’ve crossed Gazebo’s radar, because I’m pretty sure our director—we’re based in Texas, by the way, all ‘Houston, we have a problem,’ hah. But no, yeah, so our director was all, ‘oh, you should go do this major mission Kennedy’s setting up.’ Groundbreaking, new knowledge, expanding the possibilities of the human race, all those good buzzwords, you know the drill.”

“Not really.” Logan faces forward, struck by how odd it is that facing forward in his current position is the same as facing up normally. Would it still count as facing forward, or should he say he’s looking upward? Although his neck isn’t craned at all, and he’s not tilting his head, so it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan?”

“Yes! Um, yes, sorry, what was the question?”

Jackson laughs under his breath as Eileen smiles sympathetically. “I was just returning the favor. How did you get tagged for this one, first timer?”

“I, um, I don’t know if you saw the guy I was standing out with outside—the one antagonizing the director, I mean. Anyway, the director—er, our director, I guess, Director Gazebo, since you two have a different one—he’s the one spearheading this mission, and he wanted the both of us going in on it, good marks and track records and all, and, um, yeah. That’s it. Just kind of got roped into it. Lifelong dream, that sort of thing.”

“Why didn’t Roman come along, then?”

Logan carefully files away the fact that Jackson remembered his name before answering, as that’s undoubtedly information Roman would be thrilled to have. “Too many ties down here. Too many people would miss him, too many people scared he wouldn’t make it back, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, but everyone’s got ties, though.” Eileen leans forward—or upward, depending on your perspective—to lock eyes with Logan. “What about you? Surely you’ve got someone down here that would miss you, too, god forbid anything goes wrong?”

Logan nods, running his thumb over the fabric of the glove encasing where his wedding band normally is—now it hangs from a necklace, thanks to the gloves being pressurized. “Yeah. Yeah, um, yes, I’ve got someone down here. A few someones, actually, but yeah, I do. Have someone, I mean. He, um, he means a lot to me. A whole lot.”

“Then you know what you’ve gotta do, yeah?” Jackson’s voice is oddly gentle, given how enthusiastic he’s been so far. Logan turns to face him, curiosity in his eyes. “You’ve gotta make it back safe and sound, and when you do, you’ve gotta give him the most bone-crushing hug he’s ever felt. Hug the crap out of him, hug him ’til he pops, then hug him harder, because I can personally guarantee that’s all he’s gonna wanna do.”

Logan smiles, the ghost of Virgil’s touch an echoed memory across his skin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

\---------

_ Logan nodded his gratitude and accepted the steaming mug from Virgil. He turned his attention toward the television screen, where the opening credits of the movie were rolling. _

_ “What’re we watching, Mr. Mission Man?” Virgil elbowed Logan in the side—several times, so it definitely wasn’t an accident—as he settled himself on the couch. Logan nudged him back. _

_ “I’m not an official mission man yet, and we’re watching  _ Coco.”

_ “Acceptable enough.” As the opening scene began, and as the plot picked up in earnest, Virgil slowly shifted closer, fitting himself against the curve of Logan’s side and nestling his head into the crook of Logan’s neck. Logan tilted his own head to the side, resting his temple against Virgil’s hair. _

_ “Bet you can’t play guitar like that,” Logan mumbled. _

_ “Probably not.” _

_ “You don’t want to prove me wrong?” _

_ “No, I just want to sit here and not do anything for the night.” _

_ “No work, no play, no nothing?” _

_ “No work, no play, no nothing.” _

_ Logan exhaled, letting his arm drape heavy across Virgil’s shoulders. “I like the sound of that.” _

\---------

“Gazebo again,” announces the voice over the coms. Logan wonders whether they’d all get electrocuted if they crash landed in the ocean with the radios on and transmitting. “We’re just about ready to start up the automatic ground launch sequencer. Everything good on your end? Over.”

“Good to go-o, over,” Eileen singsongs. Logan clasps his hands in his lap, squeezing his laced fingers together to keep from pulling at the restraints. Are they supposed to be this restrictive?

“Glad to hear it. Nine minutes and counting, folks!” The director’s voice fades on the second half of his sentence, as if he were making the announcement to a close-out crew and not the on-board crew. Which he probably is.

“You good over there, Sanders?”

Logan grips his hands even tighter at the sudden sound of Jackson’s voice. “Yeah, I—I’m good. Super excited. We are so excited.”

“Are we? Y’sure about that? You look a little green, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the royal ‘we’ before.”

“No, it’s just—you know what? I think I forgot some papers and contracts inside. Maybe I could just go grab them real quick, be back in a—”

“Not exactly part of the formula,” Eileen cuts in. “I know you’re nervous, and don’t try to pretend like you aren’t, because we can all see your face, but it’s going to be fine. In all the major training sessions we had together—”

“All two of them,” Jackson clarifies.

Eileen purses her lips at him before continuing. “In all two of the major training sessions we had together at the main base, you held your cool like I’ve never seen. I was a total mess on my first mission, and you literally look like an ice cube compared to that. Stop overthinking it and just let yourself be excited.”

“Why does everyone keep saying I overthink things?” Logan mumbles. He shakes his head, partially to get rid of the nerves and partially to remind himself that this is actually happening, and flashes a smile at Eileen. “That didn’t help very much, but thanks anyway.”

“Sure deal,” Eileen replies. “And if this isn’t the first time you’ve been told you overthink things, then you  _ definitely _ overthink things.”

“Definitely?” Logan asks, only slightly wounded.

“Definitely.”

\---------

_ “Who is he to say I’m always working?” Logan demanded of the deaf night sky. His fists were rapidly balling and relaxing at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough that he could almost feel his pulse jumping. “At least I’m  _ doing _ something! I could hardly call the art thing a career, and even if I did, it’s not like he’s building on it! It’s patently absurd that he would dare say  _ I’m _ in the wrong for trying to make a successful living! The least he could do is show some damn respect and understanding for how much I do! I put a roof over our heads, I got us a car, I keep us fed and warm and  _ safe _ and he has the nerve to throw that back in my face? It’s ridiculous!” _

_ Logan cursed under his breath as his foot caught on a loose chunk of pavement, his feet skidding out from under him. He stumbled to recover and nearly tripped over himself in the process. Another curse slipped out. _

_ “I can’t believe he gets to get mad all the time, that  _ he _ gets to be the one throwing a tantrum all the time like an insolent little  _ child, _ and the one time  _ I  _ decide I want to feel something more than shallow irritation or genuine love, god forbid I say as much to his face, but oh, no, can’t do that! Can’t go upsetting Virgil! Can’t go letting him find out I’m actually a flawed human who’s actively working on his faults, because that sort of person doesn’t exist! Whatever. I don’t even care. I don’t even care!” _

_ Logan’s rants dissolved into heated grumbles as he picked up his pace, from an agitated lope to a near-sprint as he continued on, farther and farther away from Virgil, farther and farther away from everything. He cursed again. _

\---------

The seconds pass by slower and faster and not at all, all at once. Logan isn’t entirely certain time is even following a linear path anymore. He closes his eyes and lets Eileen and Jackson’s chatter fill his ears, nonsense words about mundane daily tasks that would sound more at home in a coffee shop than in a multimillion dollar rocketship.

“So where’d you go to college?” The question floats into Logan’s head, and though he isn’t entirely certain whether he actually heard it or just made it up, he decides there’s no harm in answering.

“MIT.”

“A Massachusetts kid?” Jackson asks, at the same moment that Eileen exclaims, “He speaks!”

“A speaking Massachusetts kid,” Logan confirms, allowing himself a half smile at the memories of that place. Too many long nights to count, an obscene amount of papers and cups of coffee and dried pens and stubby pencils and smudged ink. The best years of his life, excluding what precious little he’s spent with Virgil. What precious little he’s spent with Virgil that didn’t include arguments, at least. Few things can send his heart skipping like acing a difficult exam or being at the top of his class, but the rare good days with Virgil certainly make that list. They top that list, actually. Logan’s smile grows.

“I think we lost him,” Eileen stage whispers. Logan shakes his head again.

“I’m still here.”

“Oh, good, I thought we’d be manning a three person mission with two people.” Eileen tosses her head back and laughs at her own joke—if it can be called a joke. Logan isn’t sure.

“I could cover him if I had to,” Jackson says.

“And how d’you figure that?”

“I’m twice the man you’ll ever be.”

“I mean, biologically speaking, yeah, but two times zero is still zero.”

Jackson gives his own cackle before slugging Eileen on the arm, and Logan wonders just how many minor training sessions they had together before joining him at the major two. Or, no, didn’t Eileen mention that her first (and only) mission so far was Jackson’s second? That would certainly allow for more major training sessions. Or is Logan making that up? He shrugs in answer to the question he didn’t vocalize and finds himself jolting just a little bit less when the director’s voice returns to announce the retraction of the orbiter access arm. Seven minutes to go.

\---------

_ After all the shenanigans involved in convincing Virgil to look into colleges, even with the most cursory of glances, Logan was ready to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. It might’ve happened, too, were it not for the soft light illuminating the ceiling that was usually supposed to be dark at this hour. _

_ “What’re you doing?” Logan mumbled, turning under the blankets to face Virgil. Rather than being asleep, or at least on his way there (which would be the correct manner of existing this late at night), Virgil’s head was propped up against four mismatched pillows, his face lit eerily by the light of his phone. _

_ Virgil slammed his phone down on the blankets at the sound of Logan’s voice, snuffing out the light and descending the room into darkness. “Nothing!” _

_ “Sounds like a lie.” Try as he might, Logan couldn’t get his voice to go any louder, too heavy with exhaustion and bleariness. He curved his spine inward, resting his head against Virgil’s shoulder. “What’re you actually doing?” _

_ Virgil sighed and tilted his head to lean atop Logan’s before raising his phone again. “I was looking at colleges.” _

_ “Why would you lie about that? That’s a wonderful thing to be doing!” _

_ “Because I knew you’d react like—well, like this.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “I mean that you got all excited over just the  _ idea _ of me looking at colleges. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. It’s basically just aimless googling, anyway, so it’s not like it’s even worth getting excited over.” _

_ Logan tossed a heavy arm across Virgil’s stomach, making a weak attempt to pull him closer as he buried his head in Virgil’s side. “Everything you do to improve yourself is worth getting excited over.” _

_ “Okay, now you’re just being a cheesy little dork.” _

_ “But I’m  _ your _ cheesy little dork.” _

_ “That you are,” Virgil relented, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Logan’s forehead. _

\---------

At the same moment that the director’s voice announces the start of the auxiliary power units, Logan feels his mind drifting toward images of the horizon. Surrounded by words of confirmation and idle conversation, Logan closes his eyes and pictures the skyline, pink sunsets, orange flares, pillowy clouds drifting across an ocean of pale purple.

Though the director isn’t here to notice, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to read Logan’s mind if he were, Logan realizes he has a question he might like to pose to the dir—to Gazebo. He’s undoubtedly earned the right to be so informal by now.

_ How’s this for broadening my horizons? _

And, despite himself, despite his mercifully waning fears—or maybe  _ because _ of them—Logan laughs.

\---------

_ Logan hunched over his usual computer, seeing it from a whole new perspective with every click, every keystroke, every breath. Form after form, contract after contract, case after case, he toiled away. If he were in a more fatalistic mood, he might liken it to literally signing away his life. Of course, he was too excited by the prospect of this mission to be thinking like that. Well, too excited to be  _ actively _ thinking like that. The concern certainly lingered somewhere in the darker corners of his mind. _

_ “Whatcha got going on there?” Roman asked, peering over the partition and drumming his fingers along the top. _

_ Logan sent off another disclosure to the director’s given list of carbon copies before turning to face Roman. “Taking a risk or two. Nothing major, just the biggest achievement of my entire life.” _

_ “Are you really still stuck on that lecture from Gaze-ze?” _

_ “Please don’t call him that, and yes. He gave me areas to improve, and I’m improving them.” _

_ “I already told you, he was exaggerating to get you to work harder. It was a garbage trick from a garbage man—well, trash man, not garbage man, since he’s a literal rocket scientist, but that’s beside the point. You shouldn’t be so focused on proving him wrong. He already personally tagged you for this mission, so there’s not a whole lot of room to grow here.” _

_ “If there’s no more room to grow, then I guess I’ll just have to break through the ceiling. And don’t call the director a trash man, either.” _

_ “I will call anyone a trash man if they are a trash man. Heck,  _ I’m _ a trash man. At least I own up to it.” _

_ Logan spun back to his screen and hammered out another couple files, his legs bouncing frantically with every second the sending delayed. On to a new contract. “Keep your trash to yourself, if you would be so kind.” _

_ “I will put my trash wherever I see fit.” _

_ “Good for you. Just keep it out of my stuff.” _

_ “You know, you’re kind of a trash man, too.” _

_ “A trash man who’s finally getting somewhere in his career.” _

_ “Whatever blarts your mall cops, trash man.” _

\---------

“Aerosurface profile test complete, now beginning the main engine gimbal profile,” Gazebo’s voice announces. “Sixty seconds to beanie cap. Over.”

“Less than four minutes,” Logan murmurs, more of a confirmation for himself than an announcement for the rest of the crew, but the other two don’t chide him for it. Rather, they both share a look and nod as Logan’s eyes drift down to his left hand. Still encased in that glove, but he almost thinks he can see the outline of the band underneath. He definitely can’t, of course—the ring is around his neck on a chain—but he fancies the idea regardless. He twines his fingers together, slowly shifting them to wrap around his ring finger, running his thumb over the fabric protecting his fingertip. He breathes long and slow, in and out, an inhale pulling back his thumb, an exhale pushing it forward, his final frayed nerves stitching themselves back into one piece and sealing themselves to the memory of that thin metal band.

What a promise to make, as a mere man walking the surface of a spinning rock, floating in the middle of nowhere.  _ I’ll bring you the moon. _ The moon. The thing that keeps the tides in check, circling the world, lighting cold nights with the reflection of the sun, and Logan had the gall to promise to bring it to Virgil. Logan  _ has _ the gall to make that promise. He has the gall to believe he’ll do it, too. He has the gall to  _ know _ he’ll do it.

He has the gall to try.

\---------

_ “When did this get so hard?” Logan whispered, still gazing at their loosely intertwined fingers on the cafe table. “When did we get so bad at being in love? So bad at being humans? When did we get so bad at all this?” _

_ “I don’t think we’re all that bad,” Virgil murmured. He ran his thumb gently along the side of Logan’s palm, keeping his eyes down, his voice soft. “I think we’re just going through the motions of a relationship. I don’t know if there is, or ever was, any real love between us, so much as it was that we were two lonely people in the same lonely world, and being lonely together was better than being lonely alone. I don’t think we hate each other, but I don’t think we really love each other, either. I don’t think we know how.” _

_ “But I  _ want _ to know how,” Logan insisted, desperate, pleading. He felt like a child throwing a tantrum. “I don’t want us going down in our own history books as a mistake. I want this to work, I want  _ us _ to work. Is it really so hard to believe that we could do it if we tried?” _

_ “Believing is the hard part.” Finally, finally, Virgil lifted his eyes, and though he didn’t want to see, didn’t think he could handle seeing, Logan couldn’t miss the puddles welling there. “But just because we’ve kind of been faking it until we made it, that doesn’t mean we have to keep doing that.” _

_ “I want to try. I want this to work, without all the fighting and the arguing and the secrets.” _

_ Virgil pulled Logan’s hand closer, now well past the halfway point of the table. Now making Logan meet him all the way. “I want this to work, too. I’m just tired of pretending we’re both happy to pretend.” _

_ Logan lowered his head, tracing his gaze over the matching bands looped around their fingers. He wanted to promise him the moon, he wanted to promise him his heart, he wanted to promise him everything, but he hadn’t the words for any of it, so he just held his hand in silence. _

\---------

Savoring his last few moments of genuine exposed air, Logan swallows several deep gulps before moving to comply with the latest update from Gazebo—closing and locking their visors. Two minutes and counting. Logan glances out the window, half expecting to see the sun winking out with a morse code message from Virgil not to do it.

“Good to go?” Jackson asks.

“Good to go,” Eileen confirms. They both look to Logan.

He nods, finally certain, finally confident, finally ready. “Good to go.”

In unison, the crew snaps their visors down. Just over a minute to liftoff.

\---------

_ Even after sending the final confirmation for the mission, Logan didn’t dare move beyond dropping the phone to the mattress. Neither did Virgil, who only adjusted ever so slightly to wrap his arms around Logan. Logan kept his focus steady on the folds of the blankets pushing at their feet, waiting for the world to stop spinning. _

_ He’s really doing this. _

_ He really just accepted a mission into space. _

_ And Virgil really just gave him his final blessing on it. _

_ How could Logan possibly survive being apart from Virgil for that long? _

_ “I’m gonna miss you,” Logan mumbled, eschewing all pretense of caring about proper grammar. “I’m gonna miss you like you wouldn’t believe.” _

_ “I’m gonna miss you, too,” Virgil sighed. He tightened his arms around Logan, the only thing Logan could say for absolute certain was happening anymore. Nothing felt quite real in that moment. “But you’re gonna go up there, and you’re gonna do so many great things. You’re going to amaze everyone, and you’re going to  _ be _ amazing when you do it. You just focus on what you can do, and I’ll focus on waiting for you to come home safe. That’s all we can do here.” _

_ “But I’m gonna miss you,” Logan insisted, feeling very much like an overworn record. “I don’t want to say goodbye.” _

_ “Well, then it’s a good thing we won’t be saying that, isn’t it?” _

_ “How so?” _

_ “I mean, obviously we’ll see each other when you get back safe and sound, so there’s no reason to say goodbye. ‘Goodbye’ implies you won’t be coming back, but you will. We don’t have to say goodbye, so you don’t have to worry about it.” _

_ “I’m still going to worry about you, though.” _

_ “You aren’t allowed to do that, either. You just need to focus on yourself. Don’t let me distract you.” _

_ “I would hardly call you a distraction. You’re more like the driving force that’s kept me on my feet long enough to get this far.” _

_ “So I’m a really, really good distraction, then.” _

_ “One that lo-oves me?” Logan managed to force some joviality into his voice, singing the word as he tilted his chin up to gaze at Virgil. Virgil rolled his eyes, but a smile crawled onto his face regardless. _

_ “Yes. A really, really good distraction that lo-oves you. Nerd.” _

_ “I love you, too.” _

_ Virgil blew a puff of air through his nose and shook his head, still smiling. He held Logan closer. _

\---------

“T minus 60 seconds. 56. 53. 48. 43. 35. 32. 26. 21. 18. 14. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. (Ignition sequence start.) 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Ignition. We have liftoff, Kennedy, we have liftoff on Oh-Nine-X-S-T.”

And just like that, they’re in the air. And they’re sprinting through the sky. And they’re in the troposphere. And they’re in the stratosphere, the mesosphere, the thermosphere, the exosphere, and they’re out of the atmosphere entirely and hurtling toward the stars and Logan can almost feel the distance between him and Virgil stretching and thinning, a long cable that’s ready to snap, a frayed thread that’s only just strong enough to remind Logan that Virgil is there, that there’s someone down way, way below him, waiting for him to come back safe and sound. And then there’s an odd weightlessness as the final stage breaks off, giving the rocket its final push out into space. And then into the stars. And then Logan is looking out the window, and he’s there. Among the stars. What he’s worked all his life to see, right there at his gloved fingertips. Logan can scarcely breathe.

“It’s amazing,” he finally says in a soft exhale.

“See what I mean?” Jackson murmurs, and Logan feels his shift to nudge Eileen. “Gotta love watching newbies.”

“Gotta love watching newbies,” Eileen agrees.

“It’s amazing,” Logan repeats, numb. He can’t think of anything else, nothing more manages to push past the tip of his awestruck tongue. No other words will come. So he says it again. And again.

“You’re on a solid trajectory for the moon,” the director’s voice informs them, a little less clear than it was before. A little cracked, a little broken, a little staticky, but it’s there. A real, live human on the real, live planet behind them, actually talking to Logan right at this very second as he’s in  _ literal space. _ “Engage operations for the wormhole jump to Neptune. Over.”

“Altitude is on the line,” Eileen says, her voice switching from delighted amusement to no-nonsense business.

Jackson nods and reaches to adjust a different lever. “Velocity is right on the line.”

“Activating primary parting thrusters,” Eileen confirms. “Secondary action required, Jackson following. Over.”

“Secondary thrusters activated, temperature range optimal and confirmed,” Jackson says. “Tertiary opening sequence to be engaged, actions falling to Logan. Over.”

The clarity in their voices is enough to drag Logan out of his reverie and into laser-focused mode, as familiar an emotion as when a professor passed out an exam. He melts into the old attitude immediately, wearing it like an old jacket from the back of his closet. “Tertiary opening sequence engaged,” he says, flipping the correct knobs and levers. “Now opening rift five hundred meters forward. Tear stabilization required. Over.”

“You’re all good from down here,” the director replies. “Activate the tear stabilizer and head on through. I’ll patch back once you reach Neptune. Over.”

“Stabilizing tear at a distance of four hundred meters,” Eileen says, not impeded in the slightest by the director’s words. “Tear stabilized. Over.”

“Onward to Neptune,” Jackson says. Logan can almost hear the smile in his voice, even as his own eyes are focused on the console. “Over.”

“Onward to Neptune,” Eileen confirms. “Over.”

“Onward to Neptune.” Even with all his training and (admittedly abstract) experience, Logan cannot keep the awe out of his voice. “Over.”

And then they’re hurtling forward, careening for a rip in the literal fabric of space, protected by only a glorified chunk of titanium and carbon composite, and then they’re two hundred meters away, one hundred, ninety, seventy, fifty, twenty-five, ten, nine, eight, sevensixfivefourthreetwoone—

There’s a sharp jolt to the craft. Logan winces as his head wrenches to the left, his helmet slamming against the side of Jackson’s. He bites down hard enough that he thinks he might sever his own tongue, forcing down a cry as Eileen launches into reactionary recovery mode.

“This is Operator Eileen to command, our tear jump failed and our craft seems to have taken an exterior hit. Over.”

Silence.

“This is Operator Eileen to command, craft carrying Logan and Commander Jackson, our tear jump failed and our craft took an exterior hit. Over.”

Silence.

Her voice is growing more frantic now as she starts flicking switches. They’re well past what should’ve been the entry point to the wormhole by now. “This is Operator Eileen to command, do you read me? We passed the opening and our speed is not reducing, how’s it looking on your end?”

Silence.

“Eileen to command, we are rightly fucked out here, do you copy?”

“Over,” Jackson adds. That Eileen would miss quite so many basic details does not escape Logan’s notice. He feels his head start aching where it collided with Jackson’s, but he doesn’t have time to moan at the pain as the rocket lurches again.

This time, a curse escapes Logan’s mouth at the same instant that the craft bangs to a sharp halt, throwing Logan forward in his seat. He’s pretty sure he has whiplash to some degree now, but he doesn’t pause to confirm this as the rocket rips forward once more. It slams his head into the back of his seat, the rest of his body restrained by the harnesses and helpless to hold his neck steady.

“Eileen to command, do you read me? Over.”

“Jackson to command, do you read me? Over.”

Logan shakes his head, trying to ignore the blinding pain as he tosses his own voice into the chorus. “Logan to command, do you do me read? Over.” His head hurts so, so much.

Still silence from the other end. Silence, silence, silence. Absolutely nothing.

“I’m trying another opening,” Eileen says, punching at far too many switches for Logan to follow. He flicks two knobs on his end, careful to keep in precise time with Eileen’s verbal commands as his fingers do what his mind is too harried to make sense of. Just one click, then another, and another, one thing at a time, one thing for his dwindling focus to latch onto. His head hurts. He shoves the pain down.

“Have we got it?” Jackson asks, doing his own sequence with far more calm than is in his tone. “Eileen, tell me we’ve got it.”

“We’ve almost got it,” Eileen says. She doesn’t stop her determined pace, tapping away with all the ease and calm of a court stenographer. “Logan, sequence three A. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Hold. Hold. Hold. And—okay,  _ now!” _

In the same instant, Logan throws the switch, pushing the full force of his body into it, feeling the harness digging into his chest as he punches the button beyond the track. “Got it.”

“Jackson, we’ve got it.” Eileen allows herself the briefest of moments to inhale, then it’s back into motion, almost like an intermission for her mind. Logan’s vision blurs at the edges as the rocket recoils against itself, shuddering as if it’s dropped a thruster. Maybe it has. He sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head, immediately regretting the ache it brings on. Eileen blows out three sharp puffs of air. “Five hundred meters out. Four hundred. Jackson, I swear to God, if that damn switch doesn’t hit at  _ exactly—” _

“I’ve got it,” Jackson says sharply, his glove clenched tightly around a lever. “Logan, good to make the jump?”

“As good as I can be.” Logan keeps his voice low, his words clipped, fearful that anything too extended might literally split his skull down the middle.

“Two hundred meters. One hundred. Logan, hand on the switch?”

“Hand on the switch,” Logan confirms. He shifts his twitchy fingers to grip it tighter.

“Fifty meters.”

“Opening still stable?”

Even with her face shielded by the visor, Logan almost thinks he can see Eileen’s expression turning grim. “As stable as a theoretical tunnel  _ can _ be.”

“That’s about as good as we can hope for.”

“Ten meters.”

Logan inhales tightly and calls up Virgil’s face in his mind.

“Nine meters.”

Virgil’s messy purple and brown hair.

“Eight meters.”

Virgil’s soft brown eyes, crinkled in laughter.

“Seven meters.”

Virgil’s mouth, open with a laugh at his own sarcastic remark.

“Six meters.”

Virgil’s body, curled up around Logan’s on a cold, dark morning.

“Five meters.”

Virgil’s voice, low and happy under the haze of coffee.

“Four meters.”

Virgil’s cardigans, draped around Logan like a sea of soft familiarity.

“Three meters.”

Virgil’s passions, always so stubborn and so unpredictable.

“Two meters.”

Virgil’s promises, never broken for fear of hurting Logan in the process.

“One meter. Hold onto anything that doesn’t move.”

Virgil.

The rocket jolts sharply, up, down, to the right, sending Logan smacking into Jackson before recoiling and colliding with the wall and whacking against the central control panel like loose leaves in the wind. His vision goes black for a second, two, and even without Eileen shouting orders, even without Jackson calling back steely confirmation, he can feel it, down to his very core, down to the bones crunching under his own skin.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

Through the blur of blackness and brightly flickering switches, Logan manages to bring his gaze to the window, through which he sees stars, so many stars, spinning around him in a dizzying waltz, borne of the flames in hell. He closes his eyes as the blackness grows thicker.

Eileen yells something as the rocket banks a hard left, ramming Logan shoulder-first into the window. He cries out before breaking off into a harsh whimper as Jackson knocks skulls with him, hard enough that he thinks (not for the first time) that he might actually genuinely literally bite off his own tongue. Logan swallows a hard, shallow breath through gritted teeth as he waits for Jackson to right himself, but Jackson doesn’t move. He’s a dead weight on Logan’s side.

“Jackson’s not moving,” Logan whispers, more of a realization than an announcement. Eileen doesn’t respond. “Jackson’s not moving!” he repeats, louder, more insistent, a plea for Eileen not to have gone quiet, too.

Eileen curses under her breath. “Shit. Okay, shit, okay, shit shit shit, this is bad, this is  _ really fucking bad.” _ She glances at Logan, perhaps realizing that she shouldn’t be acting so panicked in front of a first timer.  _ And, _ Logan thinks darkly,  _ maybe a last timer. _ He pushes the thought away. Eileen curses softer this time. “Okay, shit, just try not to move him too much. There’s no way this thing’ll survive another tear go-around, the math on the opening must’ve been off, your director must’ve—whatever, it doesn’t matter. Are you good enough to help me turn this thing around?”

“As good as I can be.” Logan forces back a howl of pain as the craft snaps forward again, and he can feel his head straining to give in, to follow Jackson down into the blackness. He growls low and hard under his breath before sitting up straighter, groaning with the pain. “Which way are we turning?”

Just as he asks, the rocket jolts again, banking another sharp left. Logan’s head smacks into the wall, but he hardly feels it anymore. Just another ache to add to the list. He can’t think about that right now.

“Left work for you?” Eileen’s voice is as calm and steady as ever, and Logan has no idea how she manages it.

“Left works great.” He grits his teeth and reaches forward, feeling his right arm scream in pain. Probably broken. Nothing to be done for it now.

“Re-engaging main thrusters,” Eileen announces flatly. “Left thrusters gone. Great, that’s just great. Doubling pressure in right thrusters. Hold on tight for an accelerated spin, because I’m not doing this twice.”

“Fuel levels descending as normal,” Logan says, watching the bars drop at double the normal rate in time with the fuel usage. “Anything else I need to do on my end?”

Eileen leans forward past Jackson and, through her visor, stares Logan down with the heat of a thousand suns. “Pray like hell.”

Logan nods once, and even that alone is enough to send shock waves rippling through his skull. He inhales sharply to keep from crying out again as Eileen carries on with her stated actions, despite the messages obviously not going through to command anymore. And, calling up Virgil’s face in his mind once more, Logan closes his eyes. And he prays like hell.

“Full one-eighty achieved,” Eileen calls. “Heat on missing left thruster increasing. Evening out propulsion rates.”

“Levels not equalizing. Left thruster cavity surpassing advisable temperature,” Logan says, opening his eyes for only a split second to confirm this. “God, I hope this works.”

“You and me both,” Eileen mutters.

In the fraction of a moment after checking the levels again and before closing his eyes, Logan catches himself glancing out the window. Off in the distance, almost too foreign to recognize up close, the moon watches them tear past, hurtling for the planet that just spat them out. The whole of existence sprawls out away from them, appearing to almost vibrate with the intensity of the rocket’s shaking now. Logan shuts his eyes once more, the silhouette of the glowing moon imprinted on his eyelids like a halo behind the picture of Virgil that he refuses to drop from his mind’s eye.

Eileen yells again. Logan’s eyes fly open to see several of the switches going haywire, flicking around of their own accord and glowing like their lives depend on it.

There’s a loud bang, louder than anything Logan’s ever heard before, at the same instant that the rocket makes its hardest jolt yet. Then there’s heat, rising and rising and rising and boiling and boiling and burning and Logan almost can’t breathe as he swears he can feel his lungs melting and—

And then there’s cold. Stark, uncaring, suffocating, vast, endless cold. Freezing Logan to his very core. And after the heat, and after the cold, and after the stars and the planets and the moon have all faded away, there is Logan, and Logan is still clinging to the image of Virgil. And the stars glow brighter, and the earth grows bigger, and the sun burns hotter, and Logan looks out at the world pulling them apart, and he

**Author's Note:**

> yOOF major props to ts-storytime for,, yanno,,,,,,, Motivating Me To Write A Long Fic That I Don't Actually Hate At The End For Once


End file.
